when the snow falls
by I love music
Summary: Follyfoot Farm was a "home for unwanted horses and people" first shown on British TV in 1971 and since shown all over the world. This story takes you back to how it all began...
1. Chapter 1

_**Back in 1971 a new Yorkshire TV series, aimed at children and teenagers, first aired on British TV. Based on the book "Cobbler's Dream" by Monica Dickens, it concerned Follyfoot Farm "home for unwanted horses and unwanted people" and the gradual falling in love of its two central characters, Dora and Steve. The series has since been shown all over the world, being available too on DVD, its ageless themes of falling in love, prevention of animal cruelty, and trying to find our place in the world, still popular today with all age groups, including many of the children and grandchildren of its original audience.**_

_**This story takes you back to the music and fashion of 1971 and how it all began…**_

**Chapter One**

*****Intro*****

When the snow falls even the windows clothed in mismatched curtains and the old blankets nailed where draughts have slithered into the farmhouse for three hundred years or more can't keep out the icy breath of the wild wind that whistles hauntingly down from the Yorkshire moors and gives the nearby village of Whistledown its name. Still it determinedly finds every nook and cranny of Follyfoot Farm, chilling me through to my bones despite my thick sweater, despite the heat of the blazing fire, despite Steve's strong arms wrapped tightly around me as I lean my head contentedly against his chest.

We gather close around the old black hearth where the copper kettle promises solace from all life's troubles, where the wavering red and yellow blaze crackles and leaps and sparks, where fingers of flame bow and dance and dart like people greeting one another and then hurrying on by.

With a contented sigh, Slugger lays down yesterday's newspaper folded at the _Easy Crossword_, puts the stub of a pencil behind his ear, yawns and stretches. He pauses as he flexes his locked fingers, studying the long-haired, denim-clad figure slouched like a dead man in the out-of-place expensive arm-chair, like the two-seater Steve and I share, brought down months ago from the manor house to replace the farmhouse's crumbling furniture.

Ron Stryker's head is thrown back, mouth wide open, eyes fast shut, arms and legs sprawled, snoring like a train rumbling out of the station, a drained giant mug of tea close to slipping from his grasp being held precariously enough as it is by only one finger and one thumb curled indifferently around its handle.

"Lazy bloody blighter!" Slugger remarks contemptuously. "Can't ride 'is bike 'ome in the ice, 'e says. 'Ave to stay overnight, 'e says. What I want to know is, what'd 'e ride 'is bloody bike 'ere for in first place when 'e knew perfectly well it was 'is day off? After free scoff, that's what it is! After a bellyful of me famous stew and a fry-up in the mornin'! Thinks it's a bloody 'otel, 'e does."

Clicking his tongue, Slugger steps over Ron's lanky legs, removes the mug out of harm's way to place (albeit with alarming heavy-handedness) on the mantelshelf, grabs the brass scuttle and shovels yet more coals into the ever-hungry fire. Satisfied at last that the blaze is well fed, he springs to his feet with far more agility than one would expect for someone of his advancing years, absently scratching the back of the pencil-less ear.

"Lazy bloody blighter!" He repeats, his gaze falling on Ron once more, but the red glow of firelight shining on his weathered face betrays his indulgent smile.

Ron is the son Slugger never had. The son that, if only he and Betty had been blessed with children, would have driven them to despair with his idleness and brawls and brushes with the law, and taken their breath away with his generosity. In the irony that is life, Ron and Slugger, father and son in all but name, can never be father and son, while Ron and his widowed parent, father and son in name only, tolerate one another at best. Mr Stryker senior, who begged Uncle Geoffrey to give Ron a job, any job, at the farm he owns to _"keep him out of trouble"_ is a high-profile city businessman embarrassed by his wild only child; Ron is a free spirit embarrassed by his strait-laced parent.

To Ron Stryker, the horses at Follyfoot are _"stupid clapped out old nags not worth me bother"__, _so he says, while fussing over Copper or Jack or Lady, who nuzzle affectionately against him, for all the horses at Follyfoot sense his love and adore him.

A breathless timelessness descends over Follyfoot Farm, the silence broken only by occasional gentle snorts and whinnies from the stable block, pure white snow lending the night a hushed air of magic. Inside shadows flicker peacefully on the walls, lights dimmed by low voltage as the electric company fights to keep power alive over the blizzard-hit county, and Ron's snores subside into slow, rhythmic breathing as Slugger's newspaper rustles and the fire roars.

Uncle Geoffrey is still busy in the manor house at the top of the drive, dealing with important paperwork that should have been dealt with last week; soon he'll take me back with him in the land rover to my luxurious bedroom a million miles removed from the old farmhouse. Slugger and Steve each have their own tiny, cramped rooms, once the quarters where the farm workers got what little sleep they could inbetween tending the animals and crops. And where Ron will sleep tonight, he neither knows nor cares.

There is an old Yorkshire superstiton that says if a young girl looks out on to the untrodden snow at the stroke of midnight when the moon is full and whispers three times _"Tell me true! Who will love me?" _then listens closely to the whistling she will hear the name of her true love. But I already know my true love, I have his heart and he has mine as we snuggle together in the ice cold farmhouse, safe and warm.

While the snow swirls through a whistling wind.

_And dreams are being born..._


	2. Chapter 2

*****Chapter 2*****

*****One Year Before*** **

When the snow falls and buries this wild and rugged Yorkshire earth in a blanket of white, when a hoar frost glistens like diamonds on the bare branches of the lonely trees and a pale, timid sun peeps uncertainly down, the lightning tree thirsts to be loved and nurtured…

We cracked the harsh frozen snow with the heels of our boots, Steve and I, laughing, shoving one another like children. We lifted a large jagged piece of ice into the tin bucket and, slipping and sliding, we carried it between us to the farmhouse to set it before the roaring fire, kicking off our shoes before we entered so as not to incur Slugger's benevolent wrath, falling clumsily into each other as we tried in vain to negotiate the uneven floor, crying with laughter as we slid downwards, where twenty minutes later still we sit, still soaking wet and helpless with mirth.

"There's some not right in 'ead wants to watch what they're doin' or else summat'll 'appen, summat will," Slugger mutters darkly to the large pan of stew he's stirring, tiring at last of our giddiness.

"Wotcher, Slugs! You gonna poison our lovely Dora and our Stevie boy then? Aw, no, wait, looks like you're gonna try and poison ALL of us!"

Flakes of glittering snow fall from the speaker as he enters, leaving the door wide open _("born in bleedin' barn like bleedin' Jesus"_, Slugger complains to the stove) and the snow to blizzard inside. Ignoring, or oblivious to, Slugger's remark, he stomps about in heavy boots, trails of muddy, watery footprints marking every step, grimacing at the pan of stew, snatching up a pickled onion to crunch between his teeth (Slugger can't eat anything without pickled onions so there is always a jar of home-made ones nearby), dodging the potato Slugger aims, switching on the old black-and-white TV to squint appreciatively at the weather-grainy image of the sexy, long-legged blonde in mini skirt presenting the music show, turning up the sound, singing along to Sweet's _Wig Wam Bam_.

And as I leap to my feet to kick shut the door, he pulls me into a dance, half in fun, half because he knows it will annoy Steve. Kind-hearted, sarcastic, sometimes mean, sometimes caring, Ron can be ten people in one room at a time and ten different people all at once.

"I can't dance!" I protest.

But, unable to resist his _joie de vivre_, I swing my arms and hips vaguely, giggling like some twelve-year-old at her first "grown-up" disco, my statement a lie because I can dance, and well, to waltzes and ballroom and all the other dances I've been classically trained in at the exclusive academy. But these glitter bands, this glam rock, I don't yet know how to lose myself in the music.

Ron falls purposely on my shoulder, pretending to be a leering drunk, mumbling in my ear with authentic-sounding slur: "Don't matter, darlin', I'm only after getting' in your…"

"The ice is thawed," Steve cuts in tersely.

"Oh, we've well and truly broke the ice, thanks, mate!" Ron guffaws at his own wit as he breaks away, flashing a matey grin at Steve, who's frown flies away as quickly as it came, shaking his head in amused pity at Ron's feeble joke, retrieving one shoe and looking round in bafflement for its twin.

"Broken," I correct automatically, unable to bear bad grammar, a habit from years of expensive private education, hobbling round to pull on my carelessly discarded boots, chucking Steve's missing shoe from under the old sideboard where it landed, a pang in my heart as I notice the scuff marks and worn heel, realising he must have been sending all his wages to his leeching mother again, who'll waste it on _"booze, fags and blokes", _as Ron puts it.

Ron only pulls a comical face as he flicks back his shoulder-length red hair and, hand on hip, minces his way towards Slugger to tap his shoulder and give a sweeping bow.

"Me bird's jibbed me! May h'I 'ave the plezzure of this dance?"

"Don't mind h'if I do."

Slugger chortles, showing a mouthful of yellow, chipped and broken teeth, sad tribute to his early days as a boxer, moving the pan off the heat, twisting the corners of his stew-splattered apron to curtsy, and quite how and _Jeepster_ can translate into a wild, high-kicking, storming barn dance only Slugger and Ron themselves can know.

"Back in a jiff!" I promise.

"Back in a jiff, she says! Stew all ready and back in a jiff, she says!"

Slugger yells back, still dancing like a madman, glancing at the time on the battered, green-tinged carriage clock that once sat gleaming on a different mantelshelf hundreds of miles and many years away, a wedding gift that, together with the grand sum of £50, was presented to him and his late wife Betty "Tiny" Jones _nee_ Mulholland by their friends at the Sword and Dragon where she worked as barmaid and could, when she had a mind to, drink anyone, even he, under the table, and every Thursday turned into a small bundle of tattooed fury in the local wrestling ring, Slugger tells us proudly, when a tot or two of rum has made him maudlin and tears dim his rheumy eyes.

But this is home now, to all of us, this draughty old farmhouse, this Follyfoot, with its ghosts and its memories, with its laughter and its tears, with its unwanted horses and motley people.

There is a magic here. I know.

One snowy day, long after the balmy summer when I first arrived, I stood at the very top of Whistle Down Lane where the old wooden signpost rocks unsteadily in the whistling wind. To the right where quaint little shops and houses dot hills and slopes is the ancient village of Whistledown, to the left fields and farms and, hidden far beyond, is the road that leads to other places, other lives. Yet something else called me, called all of us, to follow the zigzag footpath to Follyfoot.

_To a place where dreams are born…_


	3. Chapter 3

*****Chapter 3*****

*****Secrets*****

When the snow falls crisp and new and the world is hushed, confidences are whispered and broken hearts mended.

The small boy has no dreams or wishes of Xmas. His mother told him there was no Father Christmas to bring presents and so there were none nor Xmas tree with coloured Xmas lights though they shine brightly enough in the window of the house opposite where two little half-Asian boys spill into the foggy, slushy street with bike, pedal car and fist fight. He watches from his bedroom window as their mother comes to the door, quilted dressing gown that reaches down to her ankles, unbrushed salt-and-pepper hair tousled over her shoulders, waving a ladle that must have been dipped in gravy, for brown dots splatter patches of grey snow as she shouts something he can't hear and the boys grab their Xmas presents and scurry inside.

Their Daddy owned the shop on the corner of their long, curving street and people grumbled to each other Sayeed should make up his bloody mind whether he was English or Asian, what with celebrating Christian festivals and opening on days Christian folk wouldn't dream of doing business and it was his wife wore the trousers and pound to a penny his family had ostracized him for marrying an Englishwoman. Though they never told Sayeed any of this as they shopped there on Sundays and Holy Days.

But Steve liked plump, jolly Sayeed. He envied the two boys having a father. He thought he remembered having one too once but he couldn't be sure. He thought he remembered a tall man who lifted him on his shoulders and took him down to the Farmer's Field where all the local kids went with mums and dads to feed the ponies, but what became of him, if he ever was, he didn't know. People and things disappeared: Sayeed and the long, curving street; the house they lived in before and his red zip-up anorak; the black cat who snoozed on the backyard wall and the old lady who always carried a duck's head brolly. And one day his mother was just gone too.

He didn't cry for his mother in the orphanage. He heard them say he was a strange little boy and very stoic and he thought stoic meant stick and he must be growing up to be a stickman so he practised walking like one, arms outstretched, taking giant strides, bumping into Miss Pat, who scooped him up laughing. He smiled shyly back. Miss Pat was nice. Maybe she wouldn't disappear for a _looong_ time. But he hoped and hoped and _hoped_ the horse hadn't gone!

Now if you believe, and some of you may, that a toy has always been a toy and nothing more, then you have never been four years old.

*****

The small boy bottom-shuffles down the high sweeping stairs, butterflies of excitement fluttering in his stomach. The bottom step, the beat of his heart , the gap of the half-open door! His head barely reaches the brass knob as he pushes it open. By day the playroom is a hive of activity, but now all is deserted, paint easels, games, boxes and chairs stashed against the walls, only the smell of chalks, paints and pine disinfectant giving any hint that it has ever been used at all.

He giggles breathlessly at the strange whiteness of the moonlight filtering through the slats of the closed blinds, hears the patter of his bare feet, ice-cold on the uncarpeted floor. An uneasy draught filters through the unpeopled room, an uneasy silence touches each and every corner of the night, a thrill of daring carries him in its spell.

He slows his step, holding out his empty palm._"Hey, Freddie," _he says gently. _"Hey, boy"_ and in his imagination, the rocking horse neighs and rears. _"_

_Easy. Easy, boy. Nobody's gonna hurt you. Carrots, see? I bringed you carrots." _

Biting his lip in concentration, he comes closer to the snorting horse that digs the ground with its hoof - a field now, dark and moonlit and deep in the breath of winter, silhouettes on a pure white landscape like the picture of galloping horses that graces Matron's office.

"Easy, boy," he whispers again, quite sure he can hear the rocking horse crunching the imaginary carrots. In his mind's eye, the horse lowers its dappled grey head for him to climb on to its back. He giggles again.

_"Good boy, Freddie." _

He stands on tiptoe to catch hold of the reins, clinging grimly on, one foot aground, one foot flailing to reach the stirrup, hopping, skipping, jumping in vain, tears of frustration springing to his eyes as he bangs his heel on the rocking horse's side and tumbles down.

A flood of light bursts into the room. Voices raised in subdued alarm.

"Steven, it's very naughty to get of bed, sweetheart. How the **** did he get down here without anyone noticing?"

"Jesus, anything could have happened to the poor little mite! Who's Night Duty?"

He couldn't understand why they made so much fuss. Lots of times he had crept silently downstairs after Mum put him to bed – often way too early: sometimes the sun would still be blazing down from the late afternoon sky and other kids, even younger than he, would still be out playing, for they had moved to the new house when the September days were still warm though a slight breeze chilled the air.

He knew why she put him to bed so early. He always heard the clink of the bottle.

Sometimes, afraid of the gathering darkness, he would totter down and inevitably find her drunk and fast asleep. He would try to snuggle next to her then but she pushed him away even in her sleep. And so he would sit alone, knees drawn up to his chin, staring wide-eyed at the TV screen, simply waiting for her to wake and yell or slap him.

*****

_"Yell and slap you?"_

Steve keeps his head down, busy grooming Lady. "Any attention was better than none at all."

"Oh, Steve!" I jump down off the stable door and lay my hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, girl." He laughs, cupping my face and wiping away my tears of sympathy with the pads of his thumbs. "It's okay now."

He kisses me tenderly and holds me tight as snowflakes fall, feather soft, silently, silently, all around this magic new world


	4. Chapter 4

*****Chapter 4*****

*****Dora*****

When the snow falls and the bitter frost of winter cruelly taunts with ice cold heart, so the lonely are left to weep. Laughter fading, one last shadow, one last goodbye, one last kiss as the sun goes down and darkness covers forever. And as the snowflakes fly ever faster footsteps gone all too soon and nothing left now but silence and tears.

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Steve grinned his teasing grin, amused. "Your nickname was _Daz?_ As in the soap powder?"

We had stopped the horses at the highest point over the river, our special place, where the panoramic views were ablaze with colour. The early morning's quiet rain had washed the land and the sun's warm kisses held the promise of a kindly summer. Carpets of yellow daffodils, my favourite flower, danced prettily in the whispering breeze that carried sweet, heady scents of spring and birds chirped on the boughs where leaves had begun to grow anew. It was hard to believe that only a few short weeks ago we had still been in the grip of freezing weather and at Follyfoot Farm icicles had hung on the walls. Hard to believe there could ever be a time for sadness.

"Jimmy the chauffeur gave me the nickname the day I fell in the snow when I was four or five. _Razzle Dazzle Dora whiter than white, you can see her in the daytime and you can see her in the night, _he said. Somehow it became Daz for short. My parents hated the nickname." I smiled fondly at the memory. "I loved Jimmy so much. He was more family to me than Mother and Daddy ever were."

And I dabbed my eyes a little for days gone by.

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I came into this world exactly five hours before anyone even knew I planned to. Jimmy Turner told me. He told me while I was helping clean the sleek, black car that he used to drive my parents all round the country to their important meetings. At least Jimmy was cleaning the car, polishing it with the chamois leather cloth till it gleamed; I was busy swirling a sponge round in the lukewarm water, fascinated by the rainbow bubbles that glistened in the soapsuds.

"You gave us all one helluva nice surprise the day you were born, Daz." Jimmy had a habit of introducing fresh topics very suddenly same way I did.

He gently removed my arm from the bucket as he spoke as, wondering exactly how deep the bubbles ran and keen to discover for myself, I'd just plunged it in up to my elbow. Rolling his eyes and pulling a comical face to make me laugh, he whizzed a small towel from the car's bonnet and quickly towelled me dry.

"What _am_ I gonna do with you?"

I giggled in return and, now the towelling was done, deciding to practise hopping on one foot.

"Did I bring choc'late?" I queried as I concentrated on jumping.

"What?" Jimmy looked baffled.

"Nurse Clara says don't say _what_, say _pardon me_. Did I bring choc'late for the nice surprise when I got borned?"

"Oh, Daz, sure and you'll be the death of me!"

Jimmy was trying his utmost not to laugh and I stopped hopping to stare at him curiously. I knew he wouldn't die though. I used to think he might and I would get very upset about it till Jimmy explained it was just a saying.

Jimmy had snowy white hair and twinkling blue eyes and was my best friend after the horses. He was the only one could get away with calling me Daz. My parents pretended they hadn't heard when Jimmy said it but not when the other staff did.

Once, when Millie got told off, I heard her repeat sarcastically_"The child's name is Do-rrraaahhh"_ in Mummy's voice when Mummy had left the room.

I never told though. I scrambled out from under the bed where I'd been hiding and Millie dropped the bed sheets in shock.

"Da...Dora, Mummy told you to go to Nurse Clara."

"I only pretended. I ran and came back and crawled under the bed." Proud of myself, I waited for Millie to clap her hands and congratulate me on my ingenuity and when she didn't, skipped over to the dressing-table.

"Can I play with Mummy's necklaces?"

"Poppet, you know you can't." Millie put back down the jewellery box I'd just picked up.

_"Pleeeeze? _Just for a minute?" I wheedled, smiling.

I knew I had a dazzling smile. It was how I got my nickname. That, and the day Jimmy called me _Razzle Dazzle Dora _the first time I saw snow.

Except it wasn't the first time. I just didn't remember the first time, when I came into this world exactly five hours before anyone even knew I even planned to. When the snow in all its breathtaking beauty had never been more cruel...


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Dora's Parents**

Arthur and Prudence Maddocks were settled. It was the word they always preferred to use whenever anyone asked had they been disappointed not to have been blessed with children (this being at a time when IVF and suchlike was many years in the future). _Que sera, sera_, they replied, with resigned smiles. Oh, yes, adoption _did _cross their minds, certainly, but they had thought better of it. Perhaps after all it was God's plan that they _should__n'__t_ be parents, what with their busy, busy lives. So instead they made regular donations to children's charities. It was all one could do, they sighed virtuously.

In politics however it was all about image. The last thing they had ever wanted was children. Muddy, rough, stupid creatures. Arthur, one of four brothers, had lost count of the number of times some brat had drawn attention to his bald patch. Prudence, an only child brought up in semi-isolation in a semi-palace, had been mortified the day a small boy loudly asked (when she and Arthur had just been stopped on their way into The Houses of Parliament and an electrifying silence from the gathered crowd awaited Arthur's response to the question about the prime minister's mental health, for Heaven's sake!) _"__Mummy, why does that lady have__ a funny nose?" _

She was very sensitive about her mis-shapen nose, broken many years ago in a horse-riding accident, and which gave her plummy accent nasal overtones. Unhappily the surgeon had advised there was a 50/50 chance surgery could actually make the problem worse and so Prudence chose to keep things as they were. Her breathing had been largely unaffected and most people, children excepted, were too polite to mention its lop-sidedness. Yes, children were to be avoided at all costs. But such being the perverse way of the world, every now and again a child crossed their path.

Once a year, they were subject to the Xmas Eve Family Dinner hosted at Henry Maddocks' imposing castle. Now this would have been fine, even enjoyable, the chance to quaff a few champagnes and relax away from the public eye that hobnobbing with ministers and governments demanded. Except…

Arthur's brothers Henry and Charles had two brats each, a boy and a girl, and although they had been brought up to be seen and not heard the whole atmosphere would inevitably be spoilt by eldest brother Geoffrey, who pandered to their every whim, ignored what the serving staff were actually _there_ for and cut up their meat or mopped up their spilt drinks, soothed tears, actively encouraged the silly myth of Santa Claus by inventing even more tales about the fat man in a red suit and played any amount of silly games with them.

At least there was little danger of Dotty Geoffrey adding to the world population, Pru and Art agreed, when, nerves shattered, they finally returned to the childless haven of their own home. Geoffrey was a lone wolf more interested in saving the planet or the whale or three-legged dogs or some other idiotic pursuit, and while he did, every now and again, bring a girlfriend to the family dinner, they were inevitably as eccentric and horsey as himself, and far from being the settling down type.

And so the years passed, as years will.

The nieces and nephews grew up and scattered. Clarissa, a gifted musician, was accepted into the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra and decided to concentrate more on her music than boyfriends; Robin, who spelt his name Robyn these days, finally admitted, as everyone had long suspected, that he _"batted for the other side"_; Winston sailed the world as a Naval captain and Penelope, now a mother of four, had long since emigrated to Texas, where she and her husband were kept busy overseeing a huge ranch and an ever growing brood.

A wonderful "no children" lull ensued and peace reigned supreme at the Xmas Eve Family Dinner. And as if all this good fortune wasn't enough, Art and Pru didn't have to worry anymore about birth control as Prudence had begun the menopause…


	6. Chapter 6

*****Chapter 6*****

*****Jimmy*****

The world was changing so fast it sometimes left Jimmy Turner breathless. In the new towns that were springing up, ordinary working class folk lived in houses with gardens and indoor bathrooms. Instead of the mines, they went to work in factories and some could even afford to buy television sets and cars. His daughter Peggy and husband Tom, who still rented a two up, two down, and were expecting their first child, talked of saving to buy a home of their own.

He laughed till he cried the day he visited and found a _toilet roll_, if you please, in the ramshackle wooden outside toilet instead of the usual torn squares of newspaper and Peggy smiled good-naturedly at his teasing about there having been nothing to read when he'd sat there earlier and said, well, they could afford it nowadays and it was more hygienic so why not?

Jimmy watched the unfolding of 1950s England with awe. Born as the century began, he had known harsh poverty, and had often been so hungry that he hunted in dustbins for food, where once he and his brother found orange peel that they'd devoured like a feast. Until the age of ten, when a kindly neighbour passed him a pair of hobnail boots that her son had outgrown, he had walked everywhere barefoot and it was not uncommon to hear of a schoolfriend's death from the likes of diphtheria or scarlet fever, childhood illnesses that had been largely eradicated in this brave new world.

As a boy, he'd earned a few precious coppers for his family helping Alfie Archer deliver milk transported by horse and cart and when one day poor Dolly was startled by a cruelly thrown firework and reared, about to bolt through a crowded outdoor market, he leapt on her back and amazingly managed to calm her. _("Little Cowboy Jimmy" is a Yorkshire tale that has been handed down through generations and you may well be familiar with it today.) _The news of his affinity with horses spread like wildfire and he would often be asked to help at stables and farms. Years later the incident was to secure him permanent employment and, as we shall come to see, lead to him playing a huge part in Dora's childhood and in her love of horses.

It was a cold January day during the Great Depression of the 1930s when Jimmy, like many a man in those troubled times having lost his job, climbed the steep hill of Whistle Down Lane to Follyfoot Farm, where he'd heard a wealthy newly-married couple had lately taken up residence in the manor house.

The lady and gentleman were about to go for a brisk ride and dressed in all their finery sat on two beautiful black horses as a burly man, obviously an employee, pushed open the driveway's wrought iron gates (these magnificent gates would later be removed during the second world war, purportedly to provide material for munitions).

Clutching his cap, shivering in thin shirt and ragged trousers and waistcoat as snowflakes fluttered around them, Jimmy enquired about work.

"I'm sorry, my good man, but we have more than enough hands." Arthur Maddocks spoke sympathetically. "Perhaps, if something were to come up in future…Hargreaves, be so kind as to take this fellow's name and see he has a bowl of soup before he leaves."

"Very good, sir."

Hargreaves produced a leather-bound book from a satchel worn over his shoulders and licked a pencil and Jimmy's heart sank as he saw what was obviously a long list of names.

"Jimmy Turner of Loppington." His voice caught with unshed tears. Sympathy didn't put bread on the table for his wife and two small children and for a man proud as he, charity, however well meant, was a bitter pill to swallow.

"Wait! _The_ Jimmy Turner of Loppington? Little Cowboy Jimmy? Why, we heard about you but two days ago. How very quaint!"

It was the first time the lady had spoken and Jimmy, apart from a deferential nod as he removed his cap, had paid her scant attention, for in those far-off days men did all hiring and firing. Now he looked up and saw a handsome young woman, her looks a trifle spoilt by a petulant mouth and condescending manner.

"Aye, ma'am. Happen I were though a good many year ago." He replied politely, surprised his fame should have reached the ears of "quality"."I was curious and asked to know more when I overheard the gardener telling the story to Davey, our stable boy, who sadly is only all too willing to stop work for whatever reason." Arthur Maddocks explained, smiling, and whether or not he was aware that the stable boy, half hidden behind the wall, was curiously watching and listening (fourteen-year-old Davey wisely slipped back to work) is anybody's guess.

"My dear," he added, turning to his wife. "As you know, I had intended to travel to York tomorrow morning to begin conducting interviews for head groom now that Buckley has left us for the Army, but perhaps it would do no harm to give the man a week or two's trial and see if he really is as good with horses as his reputation suggests? Young Davey is finding it difficult to cope and we can hardly expect Caldwell to help indefinitely when he has the gardens to upkeep. If it doesn't work out, well, we can always fall back on our earlier plan."

"Indeed. And I do so hate it when you are away. But come, Arthur, we've wasted enough time here and Magic and I are impatient to be off. Surely you can discuss this tiresome business tomorrow?" Ignoring Jimmy, Prudence rudely tugged at the reins of her horse.

"Be here seven o'clock sharp tomorrow morning and, mind, bring a character reference from your previous employer," Arthur ordered, turning back briefly, for his horse was keen to gallop after its companion and savour the crisp wintry air. "We'll discuss wages if I find all satisfactory."

And with such little ceremony, the man who (though none of them knew it yet) was to be the Maddocks' rock during the War years and, much later, a grandfather figure to Dora, was Jimmy Turner hired...**  
**


	7. Chapter 7

*****Chapter 7*****

*****Uncle Geoffrey*****

When the snow falls silent, crisp and new and not a single footprint mars the pure white earth I am alone. I always have been.

Prior to a new posting in Brazil, father and mother, dressed as becomes ambassador and dabbler-in-politics wife, are out on yet another important social gathering where all the right people must be seen and all the right words spoken. While I curl up in jeans and comfy old T-shirt, re-reading _Wuthering Heights_, my heart free and wild as Cathy's as she gallops with Heathcliff across the Yorkshire Moors though I'm warm as toast, snug as a babe in arms, listening to the loud ticking of the pendulum clock and the scream of the wind as it tries in vain to find a way inside. Should I need them, Sonia Trent, the housekeeper, and her husband John, the handyman, are a phone call and stone's throw away in the gatekeepers' lodge that they will live on in still when my parents are in Brazil and I am shipped out to Uncle Geoffrey's home in some backwoods Yorkshire village called Whistledown.

Uncle Geoffrey, ex-Army colonel, ex-magistrate, ex-beneficiary of the family will is alarmingly eccentric. (_"Oh, Good Lord, what would I do with yet more money? Please, Mother, I beg of you, divide the spoils between Arthur, Henry and Charles who all have wives and I daresay will have children too some day. Leave me only father's book collection or, I swear to you, I'll throw every penny I inherit into the Thames".)_

Family stories of Daddy's eldest brother abound.

As a young boy he broke down crying when he came across three bugs accidentally squashed beneath a toy box and buried them with all due respect and solemn ceremony. Once he broke an arm and a leg climbing a tree to "rescue" a cat who needed no help whatsoever and jumped down and ran off as soon as he got there. Best of all, when he was six years old and concerned about the nmerous frogs being killed and _"families of frogs orphaned"_ by the increasing number of cars on a nearby road, he decorated the rockery of the garden pond with a grand selection of aquarium ornaments, ships, cannons and anchors, lighthouse, fairytale castle and treasure chest, every week for months spending all his pocket money at the village pet shop, then begged/cajoled/browbeat the bemused gardener into erecting a wooden signpost on which was brightly painted _"Home for Unwanted Frogs"_.

Never married, since his retirement from the Army and the Bench, the mild quirks of youth have become full blown eccentricity in his dotage.

Instead of the residing in comfort in the manor house that graces the large estate of Follyfoot Farm, apparently he only ever uses it in which to sleep, preferring to spend most of his time "_hobnobbing with the __country yokel hired hands", _as my relatives put it, in the old, draughty farmhouse, never seeming to notice that he's often wearing odd socks or some days has even forgotten to eat, despite the best efforts of Bertha Harris, the lady who daily comes up from the village to clean and cook.

Once, having given his chauffeur the afternoon off and permission to drive his daughter and school friends around in the Rolls as a birthday treat, on a whim he asked to be dropped off in a town he'd never been to before, and, approached by animal charity collectors, he happily stuffed every note and coin from his wallet into their collecting tin, then, having no money for transport, managed to get lost several times on unfamiliar, deserted country roads, walking twenty miles or more home in torrential rain, and all but collapsing into the arms of a very relieved Bertha when she opened the door to a very faint knocking and a very hoarse voice pleading to be let in.

My relatives roar with laughter as they swap tales of _"poor old Dotty Geoff"_ when we gather for the one and only time we all try to get together: the Great Xmas Dinner held every Xmas Eve in the Grand Hall of Maddocks Castle owned by Uncle Henry.

Sometimes my cousins, much older than I and strangers to me, are there too: loud, brash Penelope with her broad Texas accent; Winston with his conceited tales of derring-do; nervy, sensitive, skinny Clarissa, who's always too preoccupied with and too anxious about some upcoming music concert to take much interest in conversation; Robyn, who sulks all through the meal because of never being allowed to bring a boyfriend.

I've never met my eccentric Uncle, who's been deeply involved in Follyfoot Farm and Whistledown Village since before I was born. The cousins, particularly Robyn (who caused a scandal in Whistledown when he first visited by arriving at Follyfoot Farm hand-in-hand with effeminate Michael although, probably because Uncle Geoffrey never turned a hair, the gossips tolerate Robyn now) remembering the kindly uncle of their childhood stay in touch; even self-important Winston sends regular letters.

But Uncle Geoffrey himself never attends the Great Xmas Dinner nowadays, partly because the _"hillbilly village"_ as my relatives mockingly like to call the tiny old market town, is usually cut off by snow but mostly because he's far too busy preparing another Xmas Eve Dinner, paid for out of his own pocket, to which all the villagers of Whistledown, young or old, are invited.

And I smile too as everyone, even the serving staff, shakes their heads in amused pity for one so obviously afflicted by some nameless mental malady.

But I like the stories of the Animal Charity and the Home for Unwanted Frogs and the Burial of the Bugs. I like that someone can give away all that they have just to dream dreams. I think he's happier than my snobbish relatives will ever be.

And as I lay down the book to peek through the curtains at the newness of that silent white, untrodden earth, I wonder if at Follyfoot Farm I might find a dream too…


	8. Chapter 8

*****Chapter 8*****

*****Follyfoot Farm 1930s*****

Sometimes we slot so well into a new chapter in our lives that when we look back on our earlier self it's almost as if we're viewing somebody else. Jimmy Turner, after years as a miner, in the Great Depression suddenly found himself unemployed. A true countryman to whom fresh air was fine wine, he had never enjoyed being denied it but the wages and camaraderie were good and he had a young family to support; when the pit closures meant men took what little work was available when and where they could, he detested the noisy, soul-less confines of mills and factories even more. Now and again someone might remember _"Little Cowboy Jimmy"_ and ask his help with some horse-related job, but cars were becoming a more common method of transport and tractors were being used more on farms and the requests for help dwindled. Follyfoot was a welcome turning point in his career and Jimmy took to his new role as head groom as though he'd been there forever.

His fears that the stable hand, young as he was, might have been banking on promotion and resent the newcomer proved unfounded. A few weeks short of his fifteenth birthday, Davey was a slow-witted, good-natured, gangly lad, his large hands always knocking things over and his large feet always tripping themselves up. He thought of his job as nothing more than a means to put money in his pocket and he neither liked nor disliked the only two horses kept at Follyfoot Farm, being far more interested in the local lasses than work. In turn, Beauty and Magic neither liked nor disliked the simple but affable stable hand who brought them food and water and generally tended their needs and it amused Jimmy greatly that these proud, magnificent creatures seemed to regard Davey in much the same kindly, but distant manner that Arthur and Prudence Maddocks regarded all their employees.

The Maddocks were not harsh employers despite their snobbishness and complete inability to truly understand what it was like to be poor (_well, why ever don't you buy some new ones, you silly little girl? Prudence had snapped when, on the coldest winter day Yorkshire had known for a decade, she found one of the kitchen maids sobbing over having lost her winter gloves, completely ignoring the fact she was the sole breadwinner in a family of five - though she did later present her with an old pair of her own, albeit thin, pretty, fancy gloves, suitable only for wearing to grand balls and expensive theatres. Seeing her benefactor's proud face however, even Sarah didn't have the heart to tell her, if she ever dared, that they would provide little warmth_).

The staff often laughed till they cried at how Prudence and Arthur were so out of touch with the "real world". Oh, but nor would they ever hear a word said against them by "outsiders"! They were well aware that they were treated extremely well and at Follyfoot there was a strong community spirit and a fierce loyalty. If Jimmy hadn't been happily married with two small children who adored him, he might well never have returned to Loppington each evening and, even if it meant sleeping in the stables, would have lived in like some of the House staff did. He loved his job and never had he felt more at one with nature than when he exercised Beauty or Magic, for an affinity with animals especially horses had always been in his soul.

And then came, just as they will when we least expect them, a twist of fate.

There being only two horses to care for and both he and Davey to care for them, Jimmy was sometimes tasked with other jobs around the Farm. Eddie Prendergast, the Maddocks' regular driver, had been with the family a great many years but he had lately begun to suffer from rheumatism and on cold days the Maddocks gave him instead light duties around the manor house. It was on one such cloudless but wind-chilled late autumn day when Jimmy was busy sweeping leaves from the drive that Arthur Maddocks came flying down the steps, carrying a leather briefcase and pulling on his overcoat.

"Turner! Jimmy, hurry, man, drive me to the Town Hall at once!"

Jimmy started. "But I don't drive, sir!"

"What? Not _ever?"_

Jimmy glanced at the gleaming vehicle, sparks of sunlight glinting off its polished bodywork. He _had_, unbeknown to the Maddocks, taken Charlie, as it was affectionately known, for a few turns around the Farm. Eddie, who was a good mate of his, had encouraged him to _"have a go" _and Jimmy turned out to be a natural driver. But it was without the Maddocks' knowledge and he was reluctant to _"land Eddie in it". _He chose his words carefully.

"Well, I _did_ take a friend's car out for a spin once or twice, sir, but not on the open road. I'm really sorry, Mr Maddocks. Perhaps I could telephone a cab for you?"

"Devil take it!" Arthur checked the time on his gold fob watch. "I can't possibly wait for a cab. I'll drive myself."

Without further ado, he climbed into the car, revved up the engine, Charlie screeched forward a few feet, shuddered…

…And stalled.

Arthur cursed, pulled the clutch again, Charlie screeched again, fired up some stones as if meaning business, moved a few more feet, shuddered once more…

…And stalled.

At the third or fourth attempt, with Charlie's ear-splitting protests reaching a crescendo before the inevitable stall, an anxious Jimmy tore after man and beast.

"Mr Maddocks, sir, perhaps I could _try _drivng you?"

"Splendid!"

Shaken, Arthur tried to regain his usual composure although his heart thudded against his chest. He had never tried driving before but had assumed from watching Eddie that it was a simple task and, even though there was talk in Parliament of introducing a compulsory driving test, he had done nothing more than sign the proposed legislation, believing the carelessness of pedestrians contributed heavily towards the rising number of accidents on the roads. Thank Heaven for Jimmy Turner! The man exuded calm and common sense. There and then he decided Jimmy would always stand in when Prendergast was unavailable, with a pay increment to reflect his extra duties.

Not without some qualms, Jimmy carefully steered Charlie steadily towards the gates. But despite his doubts, he enjoyed being behind the wheel; the exhilarating freedom and cold breeze blowing on his face and playfully riffling his hair (for the roof cover was open) was not unlike riding Magic or Beauty.

A very surprised Davey put down a bucket, sloshing water over his feet in the process, to give him the thumbs-up as he drove past and Jimmy grinned back.

He'd never been happier than he was at Follyfoot, as he'd told Elsie Crane, the cook, only yesterday.

And call me fanciful if you will, but I can't help wondering if on occasion some malevolent Puck really does sit on rooftops and listen down chimneys, seeking to destroy all that we have…


	9. Chapter 9

*****Chapter 9*****

*****Pastures New*****

The day that changed everything began like any other. Jimmy saddled up Beauty and Magic and Arthur and Prudence set off for a morning ride. He watched as pompous Mr Hargreaves (or Keeper of Keys as his underlings called him behind his back) unlocked the gates and the two horses, heads held high, tails swishing, clip-clopped their way down Whistledown Lane in the summer sunshine. And not for the first time he wished the stables at Follyfoot were his own.

Sadly, most were empty and unused. Many years ago a whole fleet of horses had been kept there, hired out or schooled or tended to while their owners went about their business, but nowadays, aside from Beauty and Magic, Follyfoot stables were neglected. It was such a shame they were left unused and to see those wide open spaces and verdant fields where horses could run free instead of the constant grind of work in smoky cities that was the lot of many of these proud, beautiful animals. Only last week there had been a picture in his newspaper of a pathetically thin, elderly carthorse dying in a busy London street from the strain of pulling yet another heavy load. It was not the fault of its master. The desperate fellow had been using the horse, all that he had, to earn money to provide food for his five hungry, motherless children. Children who should have had full bellies, medicine when they were sick and warm clothes when it was cold; toys and books to entertain; to play in pure, clean air, perhaps even learn to ride. But only the wealthy, untouched by the Great Depression, could afford such luxuries. He was lucky to be in work when others lived hand to mouth. Sighing, Jimmy picked up paint and paintbrush. Arthur Maddocks had told him to paint the cellar door and he wanted to have the second coat dry before the heavy rain forecast for the afternoon.

He was busy painting, dwelling on whether or not he should inform Mr Maddocks' of the flaking paintwork he'd noticed on the kitchen window-sills or if it might be considered getting ideas above his station, when there was a terrible commotion.

Being one of the youngest employees (and certainly the speediest with his lanky legs even allowing for the number of times he bumped into things or fell over) Davey would often run errands and Cook had sent him to let her husband know she'd be late home as the Maddocks had decided to host a dinner party that evening. But he returned barely twenty minutes later, nowhere near time enough to have reached Brentwood Farm where Bill Crane worked, two fields and five miles away, breathlessly rattling the gates, pressing the bell and yelling loudly for "Mr H'Argreaves!" (Davy still had presence of mind to insert the initial "H", having been told off about dropping it often enough, even if he did make it sound like H had no business at all being there in the first place) "Quick, let me in! 'Urry up, 'urry up!"

Startled by the din, people abandoned work. Mr Hargreaves, tight-lipped, threw down the paperwork he'd been attending to and strode furiously to the gates.

"How dare you address me in such impudent fashion, ignorant young pup!" said he when he reached there, and rapped poor Davey's knuckles with the dozens of keys he always carried gaoler-like on a large silver key chain.

_"OWWW!" _The boy quickly pulled back his sore hand. "I finks they're all goners, I do!" he added hysterically. "The motorcar driver AND the butcher AND the 'orses AND Mr and Mrs Maddocks…"

One of the kitchen staff screamed. Somebody gasped. Gertie of Laundry staggered as though about to swoon. Finding himself surrounded by anxious faces and questions, Davey, barely fifteen, and hardly more than a child, felt suddenly overwhelmed. His mind turned to mush. Keeper of Keys was yelling angrily and, unable to take in a word, he burst into frightened tears.

Jimmy shoved his way to the front. Somebody had to take charge. Hargreaves wasn't helping matters, shouting like a madman for Davey to "spit it out, you ****** stupid great ape" and Eddie Prendergast, normally second-in-command by virtue of his age and longest time employed, only stood there trembling. Jimmy could have sworn too he saw tears shining in the older man's eyes and he remembered Eddie had told him his only family, a sister, had emigrated to America years ago. Follyfoot and the Maddocks were all he had.

"Move back, move back! Give the poor b****r some space. Davey, slow, deep breaths, lad. Like I showed you." Jimmy (who'd discovered Davey's fear of heights when he froze while climbing a ladder and taught him breathing exercises) laid a hand on the young boy's shoulder. "No stopping without my say-so."

Davey nodded, gulping back a sob. His father had been a workshy drunk who'd walked out on his family years ago and Jimmy had become a father figure, helping him with the sums and letters that jumbled up in his head, explaining to him how easy it was to get a young girl "into trouble" and why, no matter how "fired up" he might be, he had to be careful - _and_, Jimmy added sternly, he must always respect a lass too.

Jimmy had intervened more than once when even Arthur Maddocks' remarkable patience finally reached breaking point with Davey's blatant laziness. He had been on the verge of sacking him three times (the last time when he found the stable hand drunk and fast asleep in the hayloft clutching a bottle of cider) but each time Jimmy pleaded his case, pointing out his youth, pledging to take personal responsibility, and Arthur had relented.

After the boy had taken several deep breaths, Jimmy, ignoring Hargreaves' protests that a beating would soon knock some sense into him (and, Jimmy strongly suspected, had there been no one there to witness it, Keeper of Keys might well have delivered a few well-aimed blows) he deemed him calm enough to tell his story...


	10. Chapter 10

*****Chapter 10*****

*****Changes *****

Davey had decided to head for Brentwood Farm via the tiny village of Foxhill but never reached there. (If anyone at Follyfoot remembered Davey's current girl lived in Foxhill nobody chose to mention it).

At Fiveways Fingerpost, he was stopped by a police constable he didn't recognise. This alone was enough to set alarm bells ringing. Back in those innocent days, a solitary constable was allocated per two Yorkshire villages and, as people spent a great deal of time travelling to and from them, the village policeman, in his blue uniform and silver-badged helmet, dealing with petty squabbles or arresting someone a little the worse for wear, was known to all.

Should a major incident occur, the busy town of Ashtree, which boasted the only main police station for many a mile, served all the villages, from Whistledown to Loppington, even faraway Kettlefield. Fortunately, major incidents were almost unheard so this rarely happened and few villagers knew the Ashtree police - nor, I should add, particularly wished to make their acquaintance, for Ashtree dealt too with the most serious of crimes.

_No traffic or pedestrians allowed through, sonny, _the constable told Davey, in the much faster Yorkshire dialect he immediately recognised as being that of an Ashtree man, and would explain himself no further, but pointed to the official sign: _Police - Traffic Accident - No Access_. Oh, but rumours were rife!

On the corner of Buckets Lane, under the spreading branches of a benevolent old apple tree stretching over the orchard wall, being stared at by some baffled cows in the farm over the way, a crowd had gathered and, having to cross the cobbled road, Davy found himself among them.

Several people recollected they had that day been passed by two horse riders who seemed to be heading towards Foxhill, but horseriding was a common mode of transport and they paid them scant attention though the general consensus was that the riders had been a man and a woman. Many had later heard the screeching of wheels, a loud bang, horses neighing, and, most terrifying of all, _two bursts of gunfire! _

Some said it was a daring robbery gone terribly wrong; some said it was a dreadful accident with the "gunfire" being the car backfiring; some said, their voices rising in breathless stage whispers, _King George and Queen Mary had been riding incognito and been assassinated! _

A skinny young man resting on a bicycle told how, fifteen minutes before he'd cycled past two horse riders, he'd cycled past a man he was sure was Harry Hunt, the butcher from Loppington, walking hurriedly and shiftily away from Whistledown towards the little road that bypassed Foxhill but would take him to Windmill Road. Windmill Road led towards Loppington (and, after some distance, a few turnings and several changes of name, to Ashtree) and hadn't everybody heard the gossip that Harry, a womaniser and a drinker since his wife's death, had lately taken up with an unknown fancy woman in Whistledown? Someone else happened to have visited Loppington that very morning and confirmed Hunt's Butchers hadn't opened.

But nobody could shed any light on the mysterious motor car.

Everybody had heard it but nobody had seen it, which suggested it had been travelling in the opposite direction, from Ashtree itself, AND would explain the Ashtree police being so quick on the scene, said the skinny young man - OR that the Ashtree police _knew all about a secret holiday_, added Mabel Cooper, a firm Royalty-in-Disguise advocate, normally the first on hand with any gossip (indeed Mabel had provided the information PC Hughes of Foxhill/Whistledown had broken his leg hence his absence) and unused to being usurped, she hitched up her ample bosom, folded her arms and glared daggers at the young upstart, daring him to disagree.

But no sooner had he opened his mouth to (unwisely) begin a war of words with Mrs Mabel Philomena Cooper when an ambulance van, red cross emblazoned on its side, bell clanging tinnily, sped past on its way to the hospital in York.

The _second_ one and they must be dead or dying, someone remarked. and that had been when Davey panicked and ran all the way back to Follyfoot. He knew for a fact the Maddocks planned to _"turn off at Fiveways Point and take the little road bypassing Foxhill"_; he'd overheard them. Wiping his tear-streaked face with an equally grubby fist, Davey, omitting to mention he'd eavesdropped while smoking a cigarette, looked to Jimmy, as did everyone else, for what to do next.

A telephone call put their minds at rest. The shrill ringing was answered by a very bored and disgruntled Police Constable Bert Hughes. He was in "grand residence" in Loppington Town Hall (at least Loppingtonians liked to refer to it as such; it was actually the old home of the late Squire Peacock and the only building with a telephone) to where he'd been driven from his Police House as the nearest telephone was situated in a telephone box in Kettlefield. The fact none of the village constables owned telephones or cars greatly amused the Ashfield police, which thoroughly annoyed Bert.

A policeman for over twenty years, he was treated like a youngster fresh out of training school, left alone with broken leg and crutches, to make his way as best he could to the kettle or outside toilet. All that he had was a desk, a sheaf of papers with standard answers he'd been ordered by Sergeant Driscoll of Ashfield not to dare deviate from, and a telephone which, to judge by the clicks on the line, Wendy of the Telephone Exchange was listening in on.

Follyfoot Farm was way down on the Official List. The very last to be stamped _"Approved Enquirer" _and not _"No Comment"_ as had been the case with most of the expected callers. Follyfoot Farm was scribbled at the end of the page, several blank lines after Reverend Paul Barlow, who was in turn three lines below Miss Anne Gibson (and Family), a perfumed letter from Miss Gibson having been found in Harry Hunt's pocket, quickly establishing her as the mystery sweetheart, the said Miss Gibson, thanks to PC Hughes telephone answering service, now with Reverend Barlow.

It seemed Arthur and Prudence Maddocks (and Families) had their own telephones and access to information, as did Jack Conroy (and Family), dashing young, newly qualified veterinary surgeon. There being very little to do, the ringing startled PC Hughes out of a doze and he drummed his fingers impatiently as Wendy announced in her chirpy, affected voice _"You're through, Caller!"_ and clicked the line to listen.

PC Hughes cleared his throat and referred to the Official List. Mr and Mrs Maddocks sustained Minor Injuries. Most Serious was Broken Nose. One Fatality. No, he was not at liberty to reveal the identity. Good God, man, _of course_ Royalty hadn't been involved! _(Wendy gasped audibly.) _Wherever did you hear such a cock-and-bull story, Mr Hargreaves? _(Davey never knew why Keeper of Keys suddenly swiped him across the ear.)_ Gunshots? Yes, the police were well aware of the gunshots. The motorist (who'd swerved in vain to avoid The Fatality) was legally entitled to carry a rifle with him in the course of his work.

"Mrs and Mrs Maddocks in hospital with minor injuries. One death." Hargreaves replaced the receiver in its cradle and spoke authoritatively to Jimmy, Eddie and Davey, who'd accompanied him to the office. "Now we've wasted enough time and I suggest you all get back to work or pay will be docked."

But there was another casualty no one thought to mention and one that broke Jimmy's heart. Magic had been so badly injured that Conroy deemed it kinder to put the horse out of its misery. Two shots ensured the job was done.

Beauty returned to Follyfoot alone.


	11. Chapter 11

*****Chapter 11*****

*****A Gathering Storm*****

And so the golden light of summer turned to autumn and the brittle leaves of autumn swirled and fell till they lay buried beneath the harsh snows of winter. The dark of the morning sky hung late while the gloom of twilight fell early and a hush descended over Follyfoot Farm that touched the mood of all. There was a grave expression oftentimes now to be found on Arthur's once genial countenance and Prudence given to scowls and sighs that had little to do with her spoilt tantrums of old.

Matters were afoot, the staff whispered worriedly to one another. Perhaps being so close to death in the accident had caused it; perhaps money was tighter than it had been; perhaps they were simply growing apart. Perplexed as to what it could be, they minded their Ps and Qs much more carefully than they had done in the _laissez-faire_ atmosphere that prevailed when the carefree, newly married young couple first stepped over the threshold of the manor house. Jimmy however, while obviously aware of the change in his employers, had too other things on his mind.

Without her mate, Beauty crumpled.

It was all the head groom could do to persuade her even to eat or drink. He spoke to her constantly. About his family. About his work around the Farm. About Magic. Her sad brown eyes would look at him as though she understood every word but she was a shadow of the proud, spirited creature she had once been.

Occasionally, some of his colleagues would bring treats and she would affectionately nuzzle their hands in gratitude, but Jimmy was the only one she brightened with and then only briefly. Davey, never known for his timekeeping, began arriving for work earlier and leaving later than usual and, because he steadfastly believed in never working a minute over the time he was paid for, would simply sit on an upturned tin bucket, elbows on knees, chin in hands, chatting to Jimmy as he fed Beauty or rubbed her down after a ride.

For Jimmy still took her for her daily exercise, riding over the same hills and fields where he, sometimes accompanied by Davey had often taken Beauty and Magic. Once he tried a different route, thinking a change of scenery might bring some light back into those soulful eyes, but the beautiful black horse came to a dead halt. He jumped anxiously down.

"What's wrong, girl?"

She looked at him with a look that tore his heart to shreds and her eyes spoke volumes.

_Do you really need to ask? Have you forgotten Magic so soon?_

They never took a different route again.

The accident had had a profound effect on Prudence, who unfairly blamed poor Beauty and Magic for something that would never have happened if a motorist hadn't swerved to try to avoid a man who had staggered all over the road, still drunk from the previous night's excesses. She was overly sensitive about her badly mis-shapen nose, broken when she was flung from her horse, and even more so when she learnt that surgery could only offer a 50/50 chance of success and there was a chance it may even worsen the problem.

Jimmy froze in horror when he collected the Maddocks from a hospital appointment (Eddie's rheumatism was becoming sometimes too painful for him to even undertake light duties and Jimmy was being required to chauffeur more and more) and Prudence ranted and raved about selling Beauty for horse-meat. But Arthur calmed her down and later sought out Jimmy, who was mucking out the stables. This was actually Davey's job, but Davey had sneaked off for a snooze, and, though he'd promised Jimmy he'd do the mucking out before he left and, unlike in the early days of their working relationship, never backtracked on promises anymore, Jimmy hated to be idle.

"My wife spoke in anger and haste and of course has no intention whatsoever of carrying out her threat. Beauty will remain with us for the foreseeable future although I'm afraid our horse-riding days are over. Other matters are paramount and could call us away at a moment's notice." Arthur absently patted the horse as he spoke, seeming distracted, which he quite often was of late. "And where, pray, is Davey? I haven't seen him in quite a while."

Jimmy thought fast. "Call of nature, sir."

"And, given the length of time he's been gone, no doubt decided to take the scenic route on the way back!" Arthur gave a half smile and shook his head, but made no further comment. It was a rare moment of humour from him these days. His shoulders hunched almost as soon as he turned away.

For the _foreseeable_ future! It sounded as though there was no certainty. For Beauty's sake, Jimmy had to know. He took a deep breath. "Mr Maddocks, sir, I hope you don't mind my asking, but is something troubling you?"

Arthur turned and looked Jimmy square in the eye with such severity that for a terrifying few minutes he was sure he was to be fired on the spot for asking such a personal question.

"Yes," he said at last. "But what I'm about to tell you is in the strictest confidence. It must go no further."

"You have my word."

"Good enough." Arthur looked towards a winter-ravaged tree where a trilling robin soared into the yellow winter's sky, shaking small droplets of snow from the abandoned branch in its wake. He sighed heavily, grinding down snow with the heel of his boot.

"I fear there are changes on the way, Jimmy. Great changes. Being involved in Government affairs, Mrs Maddocks and I are at the very helm, so to speak. I spoke with Mr Baldwin only yesterday. It seems if talks break down at this crucial stage - and sadly each day that passes we are no nearer reaching a solution - there could well be a political unrest in Europe, the like of which has not been seen since the Great War."

A shiver ran down Jimmy's spine. His own father had been killed in the early days of the Great War; two older brothers he barely remembered had perished in the Battle of the Somme. Three times he had seen his mother break down after receiving the dreaded telegram. A neighbour, who's only son had lied about his age to run away to join the Army, drowned herself after hearing of his and her husband's deaths on the very same day. Another war and the pain it brought was too terrible even to contemplate.

"I wish there was something I could do, some way I could help you and Mrs Maddocks, sir…" he said dejectedly.

"In the fullness of time, there might well be. For now, we can only both hope and pray I am wrong." Arthur patted Beauty once more and headed back to the manor house like a man carrying the weight of the world.

The snow had begun to fall again even before he reached the path, flurrying around his coat and hat like ice cold tears.


	12. Chapter 12

*****Chapter 12*****

*****Halcyon Days*****

Despite their kindness as employers, Prudence and Arthur Maddocks never made any secret of the fact that they had little time and patience for children. Staff were strictly forbidden to have their offspring on the premises for whatever reason; employees were told they must make their own arrangements with carers for very small children and older siblings who might be sent with urgent messages from home had no choice but to kick their heels at the gates and gaze at the imposing notice _"Strictly No Children Allowed" _until Hargreaves deemed fit to see them. Failure to adhere to the no-children rule, Arthur informed new employees, could even result in dismissal. Children were a distraction and did not belong in a place where important matters of state were often discussed and government officials were likely to call at the drop of a hat.

But two small children did pass through the gates of Follyfoot Farm one cold November afternoon. They walked hand in hand with their father as the bells of the ancient church in Whistledown chimed in the distance and a fog rolled down from the Yorkshire Moors. Jimmy had sought and been granted such rare permission for them to be there.

Six-year-old Peggy Rose, who had unruly brown hair, wide blue eyes and pink cheeks, was normally a lively little chatterbox, but today she was uncharacteristically quiet. John James, or Johnjo as the family called him, a pale, serious child of three, still snorting asthmatically from a recent race his older sister had indulgently let him win, stared wide-eyed at everything: the clucking hens in the hen-house; the iced-over pond where a flock of birds squawked and squabbled over a bowl of freshly-provided water; the large, frightening man, possibly a giant, with the booming voice and wild eyes, who had the power to lock and unlock the Giant Gates…there were so many questions he wanted to ask, but whenever he looked at Peggy she still had her lips firmly clamped together and Johnjo always took his lead from his big sisiter.

Peggy just about stopped a song she'd learnt in school escaping from her throat. Dada had said they must be on their very best behaviour and Peggy interpreted "best behaviour" as staying silent although it was very difficult to keep her voice locked inside. But she couldn't help herself when she saw the magnificent black horse being led towards them.

"Oh! You're beautiful!" she cried, and she immediately let go of her father's hand to run towards Beauty, her small brother scrambling quickly after her. "We brought you a present! We made it specially!" she added, dancing and skipping with pure happiness, waving a paper bag full of finely chopped apple, carrots, beetroot and turnip under Beauty's nose.

"Me too!" Johnjo demanded, jumping up to snatch the bag, and narrowly missing knocking it to the ground in his enthsiasm

Davey lowered the reins. "One at a time, you's two. Littlest first so's me and Peg can make sure you do it proper." He winked at Peggy, being eldest of a large family himself and understanding the need to keep younger siblings pacified. "Now keeps yer palm flat feedin' Beauty, Johnjo, me lad. Just a little bit for now, mind, 'orses can't stomach too much veg in one go." He fussed around bossily, thoroughly enjoying the novelty of being in charge.

It was the start of a beautiful friendship, and not just between Beauty and Jimmy's little son and daughter, but for Peggy, Johnjo and Davey too. Although he still spent as much time as he could with Beauty, Jimmy had now been made official chauffeur, with a salary increase to reflect his new found status, and Eddie, almost crippled now with rheumatism, quite happily settled for "permanent light duties" (which inevitably meant nothing more strenuous than dusting the books in the manor's extensive library) especially as he took no drop in pay.

As a result, it was more often Davey than Jimmy who took Peggy and Johnjo out for a ride. The two children adored both Beauty and the affable older boy who gave them so much time and attention on their regular visits (as it did seem to be helping Beauty on the road to recovery, provided they stayed in the stables area, kept well away from the manor house and behaved themselves, they were welcome to visit again, Arthur told a delighted Jimmy, whose idea it had been).

Davey blushed to the roots of his sandy-coloured hair when, one summer's day as he lifted the youngsters down from Beauty's back, Peggy, now seven years old, and who'd been deep in thought for several minutes, her little face screwed up in concentration, announced he must be the cleverest person in the world after Dada.

"There's lots cleverer'n me, Peg!" Davey grinned, half flattered, half embarrassed at being called "clever" for the very first time in his life. "Mr Maddocks and Mrs Maddocks is both to do with Government, _runnin' the country." _He spoke reverentially, almost in a whisper, as the staff at Follyfoot, overcome with awe, were apt to do when speaking of their distinguished employers' achievemens.

Peggy looked unimpressed. "You and Dada know everything about horses and plants and birds and anyway me and our Johnjo run the country ALL the time, we're ALWAYS havin' races."

Jimmy had just arrived back from a driving job and overheard."Well said, Peg o'my heart!" He chuckled, ruffling his small daughter's curly head.

He tilted his chauffeur cap to wipe his perspiring forehead (for it was a very hot day and the band itched) and scooped Johnjo up into his arms while Beauty playfully nudged against him, seeking her usual head rub. Jimmy 's laughter however belied his concerns.

Beauty loved children, eagerly trotting up to greet Johnjo and Peggy whenever they visited, and he and Davey of course spent as much time with her as they possibly could. But it just wasn't enough. Horses were sociable creatures and pined when they were denied company. Arthur Maddocks however was adamant there would be no more horses at Follyfoot and very rarely came to the stables nowadays while Prudence still blamed Magic for her riding accident and never once came to see or ask how Beauty was faring. Jimmy had even tried the old trick of placing a mirror in the stable but he felt Beauty was no fool and her own reflection was scant comfort. He saw it in her eyes whenever he left her, and one night in particular, as he turned to bolt the stable door and the red glow of the lantern caught her sadly watching the shadows, a lump came to his throat and he thought what sad memories must haunt her dreams. Magic, the companion who never left her side, had gone forever. They could do everything for Beauty and yet they could do nothing.

There _was _no cure for a broken heart…


	13. Chapter 13

*****Chapter 13*****

*****The Death of Beauty*****

Beauty passed away quietly one bitter winter's night when a cruel frost lay hard on the ground and glitter-bright stars hung high in the sky, when breath curled like smoke and iciness gnawed into bones, when only the very foolish and the very desperate ventured outdoors.

In the quaint Yorkshire villages such as Whisteldown, families flirted with their own mortality, sitting by unguarded cottage fires, their only source of warmth, close as they dared, children asleep on parents' knees with bedclothes wrapped around shivering little bodies, mother and fathers often still booted and gloved themselves.

Singing Billy, a scrawny, straggly-haired man with a cut-glass accent, said to have had his mind unhinged after the horrors he saw in the Great War, who many years ago had _"stopped by"_ in Yorkshire _"on his travels" _and who was a familiar figure in the villages, carrying a broken-handled basket with all he owned or dancing a crazy jig and singing tuneless half-songs to earn enough coppers to buy his beer, some weeks later in the yellow light of spring, and just when everyone believed him to have finally upped sticks and moved on, was found frozen to death in an abandoned barn, a newspaper of that date folded inside his shabby coat.

The stable however was warm and cosy. Few draughts ever managed to seep inside, Beauty's heavy horse blanket was, as it was every cold night, across her back, and a family of field mice having made their new home there only that very same morning, nestled thankfully in the hay.

She had been listless for some days and, approached by Jimmy, Arthur Maddocks had agreed to call out a vet _"the very best that money can buy"_ he added kindly, aware of how much the horse meant to him even if he himself had little interest in riding and horses these days and his wife, since the accident, positively detested them.

And so, exactly one week before, Sir David Holland, the most distinguished and expensive veterinary surgeon in the country and a leading expert on equine health care, had arrived at Follyfoot to examine Beauty, composed for her a personal and costly diet that Arthur readily and generously agreed to provide, prescribed appropriate medication and, on overhearing Hargreaves berating a weeping young scullery maid for being a _"useless, clumsy idiot"_, picked up the tray of bread rolls she'd dropped, put Keeper of Keys firmly in his place with a stern promise the incident of bullying would be reported to his employers, and thus departed, leaving the blushing young girl's heart aflutter over his chivalry and handsomeness and to later dramatically declare tearfully to her best friend she was _"'opelessly in love with a toff". _

But no amount of money and the medicine it bought, no amount of love and kindness or acts of chivalry by debonair gentlemen could mend Beauty's broken heart and bring her back from death when it came.

A motley collection of Follyfoot workers gathered in the January gloom to witness the burial - at Prudence's insistence, _"somewhere, anywhere other than at Follyfoot Farm"_, that _somewhere, anywhere_ turning out to be in an adjacent field also owned by the Maddocks.

Despite her hatred of horses, blaming them unfairly for the accident that damaged her looks, Prudence had said nothing when so much money was spent on Beauty's wellbeing but now that _"the beast"_ was dead she saw no more reason to keep her counsel. And, besides the burial, there was another matter on which she stood firm: there was to be nothing, she stipulated, to mark where Beauty lay. No plaque, no gravestone, no flowers. All trace of her must be wiped away.

Arthur loved his wife too much to refuse her anything but his generous nature wasn't yet done. Having hired men with heavy machinery to remove the corpse and dig the grave, he gave those staff who wished to attend the short ceremony the time off to do so and, knowing how much Beauty would be missed, had even hoped to say a few words, but at the very last minute pressing Government business dictated otherwise.

Peggy and Johnjo, heart-scalded when the grass was again flattened over the earth, the men who had performed the task left, checking pocket-watches and worrying about whether or not they'd make it in time to the next job, and people hurried back to work, back to everyday life, as though nothing had happened, turned to their beloved Dada in bewilderment.

"Ma said the angels would take Beauty up to Heaven! How will they find her?"

Peggy furiously stamped her foot, while Johnjo took out his frustration by wrapping his arms in a vice-like grip around his father's knees and screaming he didn't want Dada to go, for Jimmy, though devastated by Beauty's death, was required to drive Mr Maddocks to the emergency meeting of Parliament.

Davey clapped a hand on Jimmy's shoulder, his own eyes shining with tears. Working alongside his friend, he had stopped seeing the horses as simply a job that put money in his pocket and become very fond of both Beauty and Magic.

"I'll take the bairns back for yer, Jim. If Rosie's still workin' at the laundry I'll mind 'em till she can get off. That is, if yer wouldn't mind, Mr Maddocks? You could dock my wages and I'd work back the time I owed, double, if yer likes."

The teenager had shot up in the last couple of years, towering above many of the Follyfoot staff including Hargreaves, who no longer dared bully him. He was still prone to knocking things over and he would never be a scholar although, thanks to Jimmy patiently teaching him the three Rs, he knew enough to get by, but there was an air of quiet confidence and responsibility about him nowadays and Arthur had had no hesitation in agreeing to Jimmy's suggestion that Davey, already interested in plants and vegetation, learnt the trade of gardening. He had asked Caldwell the gardener, a quiet man whose family had worked for the Maddocks for generations, to keep an eye on him and his reports back to his employer had been glowing.

"That won't be necessary." Arthur smiled. "Take as much time as needed. I know I can trust you not to take advantage."

_Unlike in the old days_, he was tempted to add, but bit his tongue. Davy often amused him with his refreshingly honest _"do it first, ask the Maddocks later"_ philosophy and he marvelled that from being a shiftless youth almost certainly destined for the same fate as his drunken, workshy father, he had become one of his most reliable employees.

He didn't trouble himself to console Peggy and Johnjo as he, Jimmy, and the boy sent by Hargreaves to run all the way from the manor house and breathlessly deliver the urgent telephone message he was wanted at Parliament, turned back towards the path. Children, as far as Arthur was concerned, were brainless, uninteresting creatures who snivelled frequently, demanded constant attention and caused all manner of problems. He was glad he and Prudence were agreed they had no intention whatsoever of having any.

"Now listen, you's two." Davey stooped down to the little ones after Jimmy had given his son and daughter hasty farewell kisses and hugs. "We're gonna fix it so's the angels know exactly where to find Beauty. Got it?" He winked, pinched their noses and produced a bag of sweets from his pocket. He had long since stopped believing in any God but he respected his workmate's Christian views and a white lie wouldn't hurt.

Peggy and Johnjo, calmer now, faces stained with dried-out tear streaks and cheeks bulging with toffees, nodded solemnly. Although courting quite seriously and planning to marry Beth in a few years, at heart Davey was, and always would be, a child. Unlike the sedate adults who returned via the long path that led to the very top of Whistledown Lane, the three took their own, much quicker route back to Follyfoot Farm, simply pushing their way through frosted long grass, hedges and brambles, jumping over the narrow ditch and scrambling over the fence, where Davey, after lifting the youngsters safely over the barbed wire, paused to untangle a long thread of cotton that had caught from his shirt.

The short-cut had led them directly to the Follyfoot stables, where a large, old tree with thickened truck had stood many a year, its spreading branches like welcoming hands, stripped bare now by winter, but every spring growing defiantly anew until by summer it would again be covered with thick, lush green leaves under which Davey, in his early days of employment, had often sat snoozing while Beauty and Magic peered out over the stable doors to whinny and shake their heads as if in disbelief at his idleness.

"Wait there a mo, kids," Davey instructed the curious youngsters, and he disappeared into a stable, returning almost immediately with a small knife procured from his workbag.

"Now then, to work, slackers!" He grinned, and two pairs of small mittened hands took turns at being guided by his large fist as he helped them carve slowly and carefully across the tree's elderly bark. At last Davey proclaimed the job done and that the angels would now have no trouble in locating Beauty.

Pleased with themselves, Davey, Peggy and Johnjo stood back to admire their handiwork as a cold wind picked up an errant smattering of January snow and whipped their scarves across their faces. Beauty's name and an arrow pointing in the direction of the field was carved there forever.

Except Davey had never quite mastered the art of spelling and the trio remained blissfully unaware that the word read "Booty", a mistake which, many years later, would cause some local children, heads full of dreams from watching a Saturday matinee at the popular Ashtree picture house, to dig around the sodden earth of Follyfoot, convinced that, long ago, bank robbers must have hidden thousands of pounds somewhere near the Haunted Tree of the Haunted Farm.

Few people knew it as Follyfoot Farm anymore.

Empty and neglected as it was, with rainwater gushing over broken slates and into the deserted manor house, grass overgrown and flowers choked by weeds, stables burnt out and derelict, farmhouse shutters, where nails had rusted and fallen, clattering with the wind whistling eerily down from the Yorkshire Moors. There had long been rumours that galloping hooves might be heard here by midnight. There was, some said, a strange sense of waiting...

Ah, but that's another tale, a tale of a Lightning Tree, and one I shall tell in the next chapter…


	14. Chapter 14

*****Chapter 14*****

*****The Lightning Tree*****

_**(Part One)**_

In Yorkshire, older folk still talk of the Thirties Thunderstorms, as they became known. The summers leading up to the Second World War were hot and humid and the storms that frequently broke the stifling August air were spectacular. It was a time when milk curdled, drains flooded and fires blazed in parched fields; when swarms of flying ants invaded homes and thunder and lightning clashed in a moody sky like mighty titans; a time when everyone had a tale to tell.

Ann Jones and Vera Buckley never tired of telling theirs, of how a furious fork of lightning struck on the exact spot in Loppington where they'd been gossiping only minutes before. A reporter arrived from the Ashtree Chronicle to interview them about it and sealed their fame forever. Each could still pull out a crumbling newspaper years later, often in the most unlikely places: Vera produced one, carefully preserved in a plastic wallet, to the startled midwife shortly after giving birth to her eighth child; Ann, invited to give a reading at a funeral, scandalized the congregation by holding up the dated newspaper while talking of God striking down the wicked. Villagers, thoroughly tired of hearing their story yet again, began hiding to avoid them, and it's said that once even the vicar crouched behind a gravestone, clutching his knees to his chest and keeping his head down.

Frankie Wilcox accidentally stood on the button of his father's box camera and took a breathtakingly beautiful photograph of a storm over Whistledown; Winnie Jones, who ran the sweetshop in Loppington, sold a ruined stock of melted chocolate by adding a little water and sherbet, calling the sickly concoction as _Luxury Chocodrink_; a cup tie between Ashtree and Kettlefield was struck by lightning just as the only goal was scored and the row about whether or not Ashtree should have been declared winners raged for many years afterwards.

At Follyfoot Farm, the merest hint of storm clouds over the River Ouse sent staff into a frenzy of activity, with Keeper of Keys barking orders to underlings as though running a military operation. Kitchen staff put cling-film-covered cold meats and jellies, and wine bottles cooling in ice buckets, all laid out in readiness for dinner, back in fridges to be served up at the very last minute; a couple of youngsters were tasked with ensuring all windows were closed and unnecessary lights switched off; lanterns and candles were prepared in case of power cuts; some of the men were sent to check on the few domestic animals still kept on the Farm and to secure buildings from fire and flood.

Jimmy, who often worked long hours as chauffeur, had just returned one evening from driving the Maddocks back from an engagement, and hearing there was a storm forecast, stayed on to help out at the Farm. That eventful day, he and Davey were busy fixing a newly-discovered hole in the henhouse made by an opportunist fox, while the fattest speckled hen, despite her terror of thunder, squawked loudly and scratched the ground, keen to make a break for it.

"Keep back, yer dozy bag o' feathers!" Davey chided affectionately, holding up the chicken wire as Jimmy worked and trying to distract the clucking hen by kicking some food towards her. "Yer a lucky bloody b****r Sally ain't around!"

"Aye, that she is," Jimmy agreed about the missing kitchen cat, large thunder-raindrops dripping down from the brim of his chauffeur's hat and, running down his face, concentrating hard on clipping together the damaged wire.

In his early days at Follyfoot it would have been him and Eddie Prendergast working together like this, but that was before Eddie's rheumatism took hold. A twinge of nostalgia for his old friend made him sigh. Six months ago, after talking it over with Eddie and letters back and forth to his only relative, a married sister living in Michigan, the Maddocks had tweaked and pulled strings with the American Embassy, and, with a regular income of a monthly pension to look forward to, Eddie had sailed off to America. As promised, Jimmy had kept his counsel of some years previously when Arthur Maddocks warned him about the looming possibility of War but the newspapers and wireless were full of it nowadays and, from the snippets Arthur told him in confidence about Parliamentary matters and Eddie's hastily arranged departure, he knew it was only a matter of time.

"Penny for 'em, mate?"

The storm had broken immediately overhead and Davey had to shout to make himself heard above the pounding rain and furious roar of thunder. He was wearing Eddie's old sou'wester hat and coat, the sleeves too small for his long arms and the coat finishing above the knees of his lanky legs, which made Jimmy smile.

"Just thinking if Beth could see what a clown you look right now!" Jimmy teased as he finished off mending the wire, not wishing to burden the younger man with talk of War when his wedding was only weeks away.

"No more'n you," Davey retorted, grinning back as he surveyed Jimmy's heavy raggedy old coat, hastily picked up off the peg behind the kitchen door to protect his chauffeur uniform and once too the property of erstwhile chauffeur Eddie, and now covered in grass, mud and chicken mash.

A sudden exceptionally loud crash of thunder made them both jump. A streak of forked lightning ripped the sky apart and bounced down off the ground, illuminating the Farm in an unearthly yellow glow, striking with brutal ferocity. It was a mercy, the Follyfoot people said later, that the lightning targeted the unoccupied area by the stables and not a soul had been hurt.

But the tree took the brunt of it.

The summer tree that only that very morning had spread its glorious blossoms in homage to a blazing sun, the thick, sturdy old tree that had watched seasons come and go, the benevolent old tree that bore the word "Booty" etched deeply into its heart, that had tenderly sheltered Davey when he slept below and shaken its branches in greeting to Beauty and Magic, had been struck down in seconds...


	15. Chapter 15

*****Chapter 15*****

*****The Lightning Tree*****

_**(Part Two)**_

Fortunately, the fire caused by the lightning strike was put out before it had had time to take firm hold and the damage confined to the area around the unused stable block. The storm had long since ceased and a refreshing breeze crept into the air by the time Jimmy prepared to cycle home to Loppington. Although it was past midnight and he could have "dossed down" in the servants' quarters, as Davey and a couple of other men kept late by the extra work the storm caused had decided to do, he always liked to get home to his wife and children. It had been a long, tiring day and he would be glad to see the back of it. He turned to say goodnight to Hargreaves as he pulled open the heavy gates that guarded Follyfoot.

The moon chose that very moment to slither out from behind a cloud, capturing in its foggy light the smoke-streaked stables and silhouetting the tree struck by the wild fork of lightning.

It seemed to signify all that had been lost in the Great War and all that would be lost in another. Tears sprang suddenly to Jimmy's eyes and he was glad of the half darkness to hide them. Hargreaves would be an unsympathetic listener and tears, when all was said and done, could change nothing. But it saddened him to see that once great tree so broken, so worn and defeated, with its limbs torn and head bowed in despair. To think back to happier times when it would merrily scatter blossom down over Beauty and Magic as the two beautiful black horses, saddled up by him and Davey and trotting majestically, were being ridden out by the Maddocks in their finest riding gear. Those days would never come again and the days ahead promised to be austere indeed.

Adolf Hitler was making waves in Germany and people here were joining the Army, Navy and Air Force in droves. Many of his mates had already signed up and it was only that the Maddocks were involved in Government affairs, relying on Jimmy to ferry them to and from political meetings which just might result in averting the impending war, that stopped him from "doing his bit" in defending his country. The lightning tree strike somehow seemed an ominous sign and his heart was heavy as he cycled home, only the rolling sound of the bicycle wheels, the sigh of the wind and the swish of an occasional motor car breaking the silence of the mud-splattered roads.

Rose, as was her habit no matter how late the hour, and Jimmy's times were often erratic in the lead up to the War, was sitting up waiting for him. Smiling, she put down her book, her pretty face pink in the glow of the gas lamp, jumping up to greet him with a kiss. They had been childhood sweethearts and though like all couples they had their ups and downs their marriage was generally a happy one. Drinking hot, steaming tea and eating thickly-buttered home-baked bread in the homely little cottage while the children slept, his worries and cares fled and his dreams carried him back in gentle arms to be with Beauty and Magic once more.

He woke to the sun streaming in through the bedroom window, to the clatter of dishes and smell of bacon, to Peggy and Johnjo's argument over who was to tell Dada breakfast was ready and Rose's voice calming them down. He felt more hopeful, thankful that apart from the tree no other living thing had been hurt in the fire.

But the tree had not been the only victim that terrible night.

Under the new sky bathed in golden sunlight, Davey was trundling a wheelbarrow full of gardening tools through the sodden grass when he thought he heard a small cry emanating from the stable block. Puzzled, he quickened his pace. The centuries old buildings had been empty since Beauty's death a few years earlier and once the fire had been quelled no one had troubled to look inside. But now, alerted by the noise, Davey checked each stall in turn and at last discovered its source.

The acrid smell of last night's smoke still hung in the air like an invisible shroud as, snuggled in the hay, six tiny black kittens nestled so close together they seemed as one. Nearby lay their dead mother, her fur bedraggled from last night's rain, her long whiskers fluttering momentarily in the breeze Davey brought inside. Poor Sally, the missing kitchen cat, had found strength enough to bring her babies safely into the world but not strength enough to fight for her own survival.

Davey dropped to his knees, quickly untying the sweater wrapped around his waist, for he had been assigned the task of clearing the area by the pond where the thick clump of trees blocked the sunlight and made it chilly even on the warmest day.

"Sorry, Sal, I gotta tend the little'uns first. But I'll be back, old girl, I promise."

His voice cracked with emotion. Sally had been little more than a kitten herself when, aged fourteen, he was first hired as stable boy and she had dodged cruel Hargreaves' kicks as often as Davey had dodged his blows. One memorable day, not long after Davey began working at Follyfoot, Keeper of Keys was in a particularly foul mood and they had both run out the door together to, as it turned out, the same refuge down by pond. Sally sat on the bank and watched the fish and birds, occasionally pausing to stretch, yawn and wash herself while Davey leaned against a tree and watched the clouds, occasionally pausing to stretch, yawn and smoke a cigarette. After that they confided in each other often - Davey would grumble to Sally about his workload and Sally would every morning run to greet Davey miaowing loudly.

Sally had been his best friend in the early days; indeed his only friend until Jimmy joined Follyfoot Farm, Davey's notorious laziness hardly endearing him to other staff. Taking care of her kittens was the least he could do for her. He cupped each carefully in his hands and, with difficulty as none would stay still, tucked the six tiny mewing black balls of fluff inside the sweater. Mrs Lattimer, his neighbour in Whistledown, owned three cats, one of whom had recently borne a litter, and Davey hoped that between them they could persuade Jess to nurse the orphaned kittens, but how to get them there and quickly? As though in answer to his silent question, a car horn honked briefly in the Yard.

Jimmy always liked to ensure the car was in good working order before any driving jobs by driving round Follyfoot, and occasionally the roads beyond, beeping the horn in regular short bursts around the Farm to warn anyone who might stray into its path. He had opened the door to shoo a hen that was blithely ignoring the horn and jaywalking at a leisurely Sunday pace when Davey dived into the passenger seat.

"Fast as yer can to Whistledown!" he ordered.

Thinking it was a joke, his friend began to laugh but Davey silenced him by briefly opening the lumpy bundle wriggling in his arms.

"Sally's dead. We gotta get the poor b*****s to feed or they're goners and Charlie's the quickest way to get 'em there!"

It was rarely, if ever, that Jimmy went along with Davey's harebrained schemes but the need for urgency and their mutual love of animals clinched it. His heart won out over his head.

"Just taking Charlie out for a quick spin!" Jimmy called, Davey having ducked out of sight and the noise of the car engine drowning out the kittens' mews. Keeper of Keys unquestioningly unlocked the gates, jumping back, startled when, instead of the usual sedate drive, Jimmy put his foot down.

The plan however went like clockwork. Mrs Lattimer, who adored cats, was as keen as Jimmy and Davey to save the kittens while Jess's motherly instincts immediately took over and she fussed over the brood as easily as if they'd been her own. As, unusually, Jimmy wasn't required to drive the Maddocks anywhere that morning he found plenty of time on their return to scrub out the car so that all trace of cat hairs - and muddy footprints - were successfully removed.

Davey had buried Sally in her favourite place, down by the pond, and Jimmy joined him there to help with the gardening, both half laughing, half crying as they reminisced over the irrepressible Sally's escapades, and there were many, from the day she was found on the pantry shelf polishing off the chicken, to the time she crept unseen beneath the table cloth during a VIP banquet being held at Follyfoot, and dropped a dead mouse on Prudence's foot.

It wasn't until Jimmy was returning to the Manor House later that the possible dire consequences of his hasty actions began to hit him. What was he thinking? He and Davey might have acted on the best of intentions, but what if the Maddocks had been called to an urgent political meeting? It could have been the very one that made all the difference between world war and world peace but lack of immediate transport had meant they hadn't been able to attend. And using the car for his own ends anyway, that could even result in instant dismissal and in poor Davey losing his job too. He was damned lucky his employers hadn't noticed Charlie's absence, but Davey HAD talked and a handful of other workers now knew what had happened. If Keeper of Keys, who hated the way the other staff looked up to Jimmy, got wind of one careless whisper he wouldn't hesitate to feel it his "duty" to report it…

He was still mulling things over when young Theresa Holmshaw, who was determined to rise from the shackles of maid-of-all-work and rise to the dizzy heights of lady's maid, and was "h'ever-so-careful" practising manners and speech though her accent let her down badly, came hurrying out of the servants' quarters and down the path to meet him, walking at a strange gait as though frightened her head might drop off any minute.

"Beggin' pardon, Mr Turner," she said politely. She had piled up her hair hoping to appear more sophisticated, although the fancy ribbons and decorative pins were rather impractical attire given that her work involved a great deal of running around, and she had had to fix the new style three times already. "We was all asked to keep a sharp eye out for yer," the snub-nosed little maid explained, concentrating on re-doing a pin working its way loose from her thick, dark tresses. "Master 'n' mistress requests yer presence in the drawin' room immediately. Please to follow me, sir."

Jimmy stifled a chuckle. Having worked at Follyfoot Farm for several years, he was already quite familiar, thank you, with the way to the drawing room as Theresa was well aware. But he also knew, as did Theresa, that it would do her career prospects no harm to show her face every now and then and so Jimmy allowed her to tap reverentially on the drawing room on his behalf.

"Mr Turner, sir, ma'am." She swept open the doors in response to the invitation to enter, tilting her chin so carefully to keep her hairdo in place that she put an amused Jimmy in mind of a ship's figurehead.

But his heart sank as soon as he saw the sombre expressions on the Maddocks' faces.

"Jimmy," Arthur began. "We have an extremely serious matter to discuss with you…"


	16. Chapter 16

*****Chapter 16*****

*****August 1939*****

Jimmy had of course been in the drawing room many times before. With its large fireplace, luxurious carpet, grand piano and antique furniture, it was a place where the Maddocks liked to relax and perhaps take a light afternoon tea while discussing political matters or household affairs. Not only did it catch the sun and give panoramic views of both the rolling hills of Whistledown and the distant Yorkshire Moors, but it housed too an elderly wireless and a brand new television set, the latter which filled the staff with almost reverential awe and gave them much cause to boast in the village shops. As was the fashion in those pre-War days however, it overflowed with clutter and fuss and Jimmy didn't envy Edith who, as soon as pretty little Theresa had coaxed the fire into new morning life and exited with soot-blackened nose and arms, marched in with dusters and polish.

In the hearth, two ornately-decorated Victorian fire screens jostled for space with the brass fireside set and two large bronze elephant sculptures. Surrounding the mahogany pendulum wall clock and always making Jimmy shiver with horror, stuffed animal heads, relics from a bygone era, stared glassy-eyed. Several paintings adorned the walls: a portrait of Lord and Lady Maddocks (Arthur had inherited the title a few years earlier when eldest brother Geoffrey refused it); a stern-looking ancestor pondering over some thick tome; a snow-covered Yorkshire landscape with shepherd and sheepdog busy herding their flock; a winter woodland, solitary and eerie by moonlight; a busy Thames teeming with ships and colour; a group of wild, free horses gathered by a stream, a gift from said Geoffrey and which, Jimmy had noticed, since the tragic accident when Prudence was thrown from Magic and disfigured her nose, had been demoted to a half-hidden corner.

The mantelshelf too was crammed with ornaments and photographs. One in particular never failed to capture his interest. It did now in the silence punctuated only by the clock's loud ticking. It was a large, silver-framed picture of the Maddocks family taken several years ago.

On a long seated couch, mother and father sat at either side of three of their brood, all boys, who seemed to range in age from around ten to fourteen. Their round, podgy faces might simply have been puppy fat but it could equally have been an unfortunately inherited trait of their portly father, who looked to be a man who had great appreciation of good food, good wine and his own importance. The fourth boy, a tall, skinny youth in his teens, who more closely resembled his slender, pretty mother, stood at the back, both hands placed on the couch behind each parent. Perhaps it had been the photographer's original intention to show the heir to the vast Maddocks fortune embracing his wealth, but if so in this he had been thwarted. "Dotty Geoff", as Jimmy had often heard Arthur and Prudence disparagingly refer to him, smiled for the camera but his gaze strayed towards the window, where an inquisitive squirrel sat watching from a tree branch. There was something about that amused gaze and the open window that intrigued Jimmy. He was not given to "flights of fancy", as his wife Rose would say, yet he felt, like himself, there was a love of the great outdoors and animals in this boy. This man.

For Geoffrey Maddocks, unmistakeably the boy in the picture sat, in army uniform, in the very same room, drinking a glass of brandy.

"Jimmy, we have an extremely serious matter to discuss with you…"

Arthur had paused and Jimmy clutched his doffed cap, bewildered by the presence of the newcomer.

"This is my brother Colonel Geoffrey Maddocks. Geoffrey, this is Jimmy Turner of whom we spoke."

"Indeed. Pleased to meet you," the Army man replied in the same cut-glass accent, and to Jimmy's surprise stood in order to warmly shake him by the hand.

"Likewise," he stammered in return, wondering if the world had turned on its head and toffs were to respect the lower classes now.

"Please take a seat. May I offer you brandy or whiskey? Or would you prefer to take it in tea?" Arthur had already picked up the decanter from the tray set out on a nearby coffee table.

"Or we could send for coffee…?" Prudence added, her finger hovering over the old-fashioned bell-pull that would alert the duty kitchen maid, further confounding Jimmy, who pinched himself to be sure this wasn't all some peculiar dream.

"Just tea would be fine, thank you, ma'am." Jimmy was too stunned to feel like drinking anything at all but thought he ought to accept for politeness's sake. He sat rigidly on the very edge of the easy chair Arthur had indicated, thinking whoever was duty maid would swoon if she could see him now. It was the Thirties and folk said class barriers were being torn down and rightly so in these more modern times, but Jimmy was of the old school and ill-at-ease being treated as an equal.

"I won't beat about the bush," Arthur continued as he poured from the large silver teapot into a delicate china cup that Jimmy, more used to the thick, chipped kitchen mugs, was very anxious about breaking. "Jimmy, you must know by now we regard you more as a friend than an employee. You may recollect our conversation that bleak winter's day a few years ago when I told you we may have to prepare for War? I must take you into my confidence again."

He wiped a hand across his face and sighed heavily. "We fully expect Mr Chamberlain to make such an announcement in weeks, perhaps even days. Follyfoot Farm is to be closed. We intend to relocate as many staff as we can to new places and positions and have already begun the process. And we need someone we can trust, who would, I might add, be very admirably recompensed, to live and work with us in London… "


	17. Chapter 17

*****Chapter 17*****

*****Decisions*****

Although he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol, Jimmy's head was spinning by the time he left for the kitchen to inform a certain Private Jones, who had apparently been entrusted to Davey's care, that his superior, Colonel Geoffrey Maddocks, was now ready to leave. He had gone into the drawing room expecting to be hauled over the coals for taking the car without permission. He left having learnt that potential enemy codes were being broken and allied codes created in a top secret underground London HQ. That there too strategic plans were being drawn up by top boffins in preparation for the impending war. That the highly intelligent, if slightly eccentric, Colonel Maddocks was helping create allied and crack enemy codes on behalf of the Government.

Now Arthur and Prudence, who would be heavily involved in the work too, hoped Jimmy, under his guise as a chauffeur driving the fabulously wealthy to theatre shows and dinner parties, would deliver top secret papers and documents. False statements would be fed to the press about Prudence and Arthur being "disillusioned" and "quitting politics", having supposedly decided to concentrate instead on the idle life of leisure which their riches could easily afford. Jimmy would be given his own cottage in the grounds of their exclusive home and his children attend a nearby private day school, its fees and uniforms paid for by the Maddocks. Rose would be free to do as she pleased. Lord and Lady Maddocks would have no hesitation in footing the bill if she tired of being a homemaker and decided to pursue some interest. She might like to _"study the history of art or take flower arranging lessons", _Prudence gushed. Privately, Jimmy thought Rose would laugh till she cried at such "silly notions".

He stopped for a moment by the circular window of the winding corridor to peer out through its ancient thick panes at the empty stable block now blackened and charred by lightning. His mind mocked and teased him with memories of happier times, when the tree had been in full summer bloom and Beauty and Magic majestic and proud. Follyfoot Farm was to be closed down. He had always dreamed a foolish dream that one day Arthur and Prudence would own horses again. Always thought he would spend the rest of his days living happily in Whistledown and working at the little family-like community of Follyfoot. Now everyone was to be divided and scattered, perhaps forever. The war would see to that. He wiped away a stray tear. No use dwelling on the past. Time moved on. Nothing stayed still, not the rush of the ocean nor the wayward wind that whistled eerily down from the wild Yorkshire Moors. The future beckoned now.

It was an incredibly generous job offer and the Maddocks were relying on him so much to accept it. His family would want for nothing and he would be helping with the war effort.

But they were simple country folk, his heart argued. Rose had gone with him once to Leeds but she couldn't wait to hurry home. She had hated the swarming crowds, the noise of the traffic, the factory chimneys belching out their thick fumes. Like himself, his wife loved pretty little Whistledown and its quaint, old-fashioned way of life. And what of Peggy and Johnjo? They were bright, happy children who thrived on the unsullied country air and they adored animals. They were always full of what they'd learnt at the village school or caring for some wounded bird or deciding what vegetables or flowers they could grow next. How could he tear them away from all they'd ever known?

It seemed a thousand years since the tree had been struck by lightning. It was as if it had signalled the end of Follyfoot forever...


	18. Chapter 18

*****Chapter 18*****

*****A Newcomer*****

Arthur and Prudence had already confided in Davey their plans to close Follyfoot Farm although they did not disclose to him the real reason they were returning to London. The rest of the staff would be gathered together that very evening and told the sad news. Davey alone would be left in Whistledown to deal with all practical matters relating to the Follyfoot estate. He would tend the grounds, divert mail, telephone the Maddocks in the case of any emergency, arrange immediately for any repairs he couldn't handle himself.

"It is a great responsibility but you are a very responsible young man and I have no doubt will make Beth Harris an excellent husband," Arthur said, after he'd explained Davey's new role.

"We would like you to accept this small wedding gift with our complements," Prudence added as, to Davey's overwhelming delight, he was presented with a beautiful brass mantel clock.

Nobody mentioned it would look somewhat out of place in the rundown little cottage where he and his new bride were to set up home although the colonel's batman, a ruddy-faced, no-nonsense sort of fellow, might have been observed to roll his eyes to the ceiling. And, being unaware of Davey's renowned clumsiness especially when excited, he looked downright baffled when, Arthur, being VERY MUCH aware of it, suggested HE carry the clock (that Prudence, erring on the side of caution, had carefully repackaged in its tissue-layered box) while Davey took him to the kitchen for refreshments.

Jimmy of course had returned to the manor house later, having noticed some blocked guttering on the farmhouse roof, fetched ladder and overalls and busied himself clearing it. And it was to learn that Hargreaves had indeed heard on the buzzing grapevine that "Charlie" had been commandeered to rescue orphaned kittens, "dutifully" reported it to his employers and hinted that strong action, perhaps even dismissal, should be the result.

"Davey has told us the whole story and admirably tried to shoulder all the blame. You and he acted with the best of intentions however and we don't propose to take the matter any further," Arthur explained.

The colonel, who was, as Jimmy suspected he might be, an animal lover, was thrilled to hear of how the kittens had been rescued in the nick of time.

"If only everyone cared for each other and more vulnerable creatures, there never would be need for soldiers or battles," he sighed wistfully, the irony of his uniform and the war work he had so lately and animatedly discussed apparently lost on him. Hands clasped behind his back, he had paused from pacing the room to study the painting of wild horses and suddenly he spoke as if to himself. "Follyfoot Farm is a beautiful place. A little piece of Heaven fallen down to Earth. Would that I could fill its empty stables with tired, forgotten, cruelly treated horses and its magnificent buildings with people to care for them, perhaps make a home here for those with nowhere to belong…"

Behind his back, Arthur smiled mockingly as he exchanged a contemptuous glance with his wife and Prudence tapped her forehead in response. The gestures, mild though they were, saddened Jimmy. His employers could be kind, thoughtful people when it suited them yet at other times their lack of compassion chilled him. He knew exactly what Colonel Maddocks meant. It WAS a shame if so much could be done to help the less fortunate and nothing WAS done. Still, it wasn't his place to say so. Even if Lord and Lady Maddocks did claim they regarded him as a friend nowadays, there always would be the gulf of him having been born into dire poverty and they born into vast riches.

Arthur coughed loudly and, startled out of his reverie, his brother turned back to the conversation, seeming to forget he'd even spoken at all.

"Davey will stay to attend to the Farm's upkeep." Prudence continued outlining their plans to close Follyfoot as if stables and horses had never been mentioned. As many staff as wished to be and who were prepared to leave Whistledown (with war a distinct possibility, some of the more patriotic had already joined up) would be allocated posts elsewhere. "Hargreaves is to be pensioned off. My husband and I have heard and seen enough of his bullying over the years and are well aware his nickname is Keeper of Keys."

"We are not so out of touch as you may think," Arthur added in amusement as Jimmy started. "Jimmy, I hope you and your wife will give our offer very serious consideration although, given the urgency, I'm afraid I must press you for a quick answer. The staff look up to you as do we. Without your influence, Davey might well have taken the same destructive path as his father. Certainly if you hadn't taken it on yourself to be his mentor I would have fired him long ago. We would trust you with our lives. I hope and pray your answer will be yes."

Jimmy sighed as he headed for the kitchens to fetch Private Jones. Had there only been himself to consider, the decision would have been an easy one, for he felt he owed a heavy debt of gratitude to Arthur and Prudence. If they hadn't been willing to give him a job, his fate would have been the same destitution and despair suffered by many men unemployed in the Great Depression. But leaving the little village that had always been her home would break Rose's heart and probably their children's too. And in the outbreak of war London would be a far more dangerous place to be than Whistledown. There was talk that this war would be far, far worse than the last with new, terrible machines to kill and thousands of bombs raining down from the skies. He sighed again, wondering what would be the outcome of it all.

The rough Cockney voice, peppered with swear words and greeted by roars of laughter, assailed his ears long before he reached the end of the corridor leading out to the kitchens. But still he was unprepared for what he saw.

Not a stroke of work was being done. For some strange reason, in pride of place on the kitchen table, next to an empty box, crumpled tissue paper, opened bottles of beer and wine and hastily abandoned pastry and rolling pin, sat an expensive-looking, brand new brass mantel clock. Davey and the kitchen staff sat or stood around drinking alcohol from mugs and glasses. Hargreaves, arms folded on the kitchen table, head nestled in their crook, was fast asleep, snoring drunkenly, an almost empty bottle of whiskey and tell-tale drained whiskey tumbler by his elbow. Jimmy had a sneaking (and unfounded, he told himself sternly, remembering his strong judge-not-lest-ye-be-judged Christian principles, but nonetheless the suspicion persisted) that the handsome young soldier with the devil of mischief in his eyes, cocky, gap-toothed grin and attentive Follyfoot audience had plied Keeper of Keys with drink…


	19. Chapter 19

**_***Chapter 19***_**

**_***Slugger's Story***_**

Folk often remarked that Slugger Jones, with his gift of the gab, must have kissed the Blarney Stone and Slugger Jones confirmed it was indeed so. Which was an amazing achievement considering that he had never once set foot on the Emerald Isle.

He did, however, have some half dozen explanations as to how it came to be so, ranging from the wild tale that his maternal grandfather, when lowered to the Stone, had secretly chipped off and pocketed a piece as a keepsake for his baby grandson, to the even wilder tale that a mild earth tremor in the 1800s sent a chunk of Blarney Stone flying five miles away over county Cork, where a distant ancestor, being an athletic and resourceful Corkman, leapt up to catch it, and which had been passed down through generations ever since. Oh, and I should add much depended on the questioner: both children and drunks, for instance, would be regaled with an account of the Blarney Leprechaun, which would leave children enchanted and drunks even more baffled than they were before.

Whatever the truth of the matter, Slugger could hold listeners spellbound with his rambling stories. (Many years later repetition gave him the power to bore his listeners too but that's a power given to all of us in the fullness of time and another matter altogether.)

At any rate, as Jimmy entered the kitchen, Slugger had persuaded the Follyfoot kitchen staff to open bottles of wine and beer and was holding their undivided attention with amusing tales of travelling folk, life in the Army and the silliness of protocol.

There was, at best, a tenuous connection to Slugger's claims to an Irish ancestry. Back in the 1900s, his grandmother Mary Ann Jones, finding herself widowed with four small children to provide for, had married smooth-taking Irishman Pat O'Hara, in the hope he would provide for them, while Pat O'Hara, finding himself wishing to be provided for in an idle lifestyle, had married Mary Ann Jones in the hope of being provided for in one. Both parties being disappointed in their aspirations, it was inevitably a stormy marriage: Pat drank and Mary Ann swore as she hurled pots and pans at him when he staggered home drunk; Mary Ann refused to consummate the marriage and insisted he slept by night on the threadbare couch, Pat snored drunkenly as he slept on the threadbare couch by night and whiled away the days propping up bars, telling the children tall stories about his supposed heroic exploits and being another mouth to feed. Worn out by her daily toils, poor Mary Ann died of Spanish flu almost as soon as the outbreak hit the shores of England. The children, by now in their teens and alarmed at the prospect of being expected to care for their lazy, drunken stepfather, began to quickly fly the nest.

Fifteen-year-old Alice Jones ran off with her boyfriend sixteen-year-old Tom Bennett and they never stopped running afterwards. They moved from place to place, obtaining only casual work and dodging rent collectors, debt collectors, policemen, judges and irate shop owners foolish enough to agree to "tick" along the way. Tom was good with his fists while Alice, perhaps from listening to her stepfather, was good at talking her way out of difficult situations. Runner, scam, rat droppings, coppers, bedbugs and moonlight flit were all words their little son, born eighteen months and two miscarriages after they set off from their original starting block, was familiar with from a tender age.

_Cocky young devil _was an adjective often heard in reference to Colonel Geoffrey Maddocks' batman. Slugger was a thick-set, ruddy-faced, talkative man in his mid-twenties who seemed well able to look after himself. As indeed Slugger Jones could. He had had to be.

Many years before, Eddie Shaw of Eddie Shaw's Travelling Fair had been startled from his bed and his wife's plump arms and voluptuous breast by a thud-thud-thudding on his caravan door one foggy night, opening it to the icy air and a small boy, no more than two or three years old, face red and fierce, hands curled into thick fists, who was about to land another knock and instead catching Eddie, who had stooped down to him, square on the nose.

"Bleedin' hell that hurt, you little bu…slugger!" He hastily corrected himself, moved by the tear stains shining on the young visitor's grubby face. Hs wife, who had followed him to the door and was still fastening her dressing gown over her naked body, suddenly screamed over his shoulder.

Barbara had espied what looked like the corpse of a woman crumpled nearby in the miserable mish-mash of January slush…


	20. Chapter 20

*****Chapter 20*****

*****Slugger's Story*****

**(Part Two)**

Despite the swirling January snow, carrying her few belongings and, for much of the way, her young son too, Alice Jones had determinedly walked ten miles to Eddie Shaw's Travelling Fair only to faint from hunger at the very last hurdle.

She and her child were all alone in the world now. Tom Bennett had been killed in a fall from a roof while working as a labourer and there being no insurance pay-outs to common law wives or illegitimate offspring, Alice was left with only the pittance that they had managed to save. In those days, men were given preference in the jobs market and unmarried mothers, treated as the lowest of the low, had little chance of employment. Without work there was no money to pay the rent and one day, after another fruitless search, she returned to find the locks changed and her worldly goods piled on the doorstep.

For some days, Alice begged on the streets and slept where and when she could, but she had not yet given up hope. The news that Eddie Shaw's was setting up several miles away might mean the chance of _something_ and she wrapped the toddler in an old woollen sweater and set off. Her arms ached when finally she put him down so that she could rap on the caravan door but at that moment her weak body finally gave out and she crumpled to the ground.

Convinced Alice had died and not knowing what to do except to continue hammering on the door in her place, the two-year-old was hysterical. Even more so as he felt himself floating in the air when the tattooed stranger snatched him up by the arm as both he and the plump woman hurried over to his mother. They were shouting and swearing and, alerted by the commotion, strange-looking people, the like of which the little boy had never seen before, began to emerge from caravans and tents: an enormously fat woman puffing and panting as she waddled up the slope; a lady and a man in sequin-sparkling semi-costumes and with glittering moons and stars painted on their faces; someone who looked like a man but with long yellow hair, who wore a purple satin cloak as if he/she had lately flown there. Thinking he must be to blame for the mayhem and quite terrified, being far too young to understand they wanted to help, poor little Slugger added to the terrible din with ear-splitting screams.

Neither Slugger nor Alice could know how that day would change their lives.

Eddie Shaw's Travelling Fair, with its acrobats, clowns and strongmen; with its magicians, dancers and singers; with its freak show and its music hall parodies, was hugely popular though _Fair_ was probably not an accurate description of the nomadic show. It was a curious travelling circus minus circus animals - indeed, the only animals to be found anywhere were the horses that pulled the caravans and which were never expected to perform any tricks any time by anybody. A carousel, a handful of children's rides and try-your-luck stalls made up the "fair", but the real stars were its eccentric characters: the lonely and the unloved; the strange and the unwanted; those who were passed by and those who never quite fitted in: flotsam and jetsam cast adrift on life's ocean come together and gaining strength from each other.

Eddie Shaw was an odd mix of a man. A violent, hard drinking, heavy smoking ex-con, he could terrify grown men and yet be a gentle giant with the weak and vulnerable.

He had killed twice.

Once in a red mist of rage after seeing a man kicking a kitten to death. Eddie was tried for manslaughter, but the case was dismissed on a legal technicality. There was no legal technicality to set him free next time.

Wealthy Barbara and Jack Swales had lately bought The Oak Tree, one of the pubs he delivered to on his rounds as a drayman. Like Eddie, Barbara was an animal lover and they had got into the habit of exchanging banter and small talk as she brought apples or carrots for the horses that pulled the dray. Gradually the small talk became the confidences of friends.

From the very beginning, Eddie had remarked on the bruises and black eyes, but Barbara insisted she was accident prone. When finally she admitted to what he already knew, she pleaded with him not to touch Jack.

"I love him," she said desperately. "I can change him. He don't mean to do what he does. It's the drink talking."

The last day of her marriage, she limped towards Eddie, bloody, bruised and broken.

"Jack raped me again last night," she whispered, as she fell sobbing on his shoulder.

The prosecution said that Jack Swales's death had been particularly brutal. That he'd been flung about like a rag doll, kicked and stamped on, punched so hard that one eye was knocked out of its socket and his tongue pushed to the back of his throat. That the walls and floor were streaked with a mass of unrecognisable blood and bone that once was a human being and that Edwin Albert Shaw should be sent down for a long, long time.

When, twenty-five years later, Eddie finally tasted freedom again, Barbara, who'd visited him every week in prison, was waiting. Both now in their late forties, they married and sold up The Oak Tree, bought caravans and horses and followed the open road with their travelling fair…


	21. Chapter 21

*****chapter 21*****

*****Slugger's Story (continued)*****

By the time Slugger and his mother were welcomed into the strange community, Eddie and Barbara had long since retired to pull strings from behind scenes and appointed the flamboyant Maximus D'Arcy ringmaster.

"We ARE the circus. I AM the circus," Maximus D'Arcy (_aka_ Eric Waters) classically trained actor, fired from a west end show under a cloud of scandal about his sexuality, was fond of quoting, shaking his long, blond curls, wiping crocodile tears from his pale blue eyes after some real or perceived slight, and flicking back his purple satin cloak in theatrical gesture. If he had a new lover to say it to, so much the better.

Things happened in Eddie Shaw's Travelling Fair. Things like Max walking hand in hand with another man. Even little Slugger knew that if the old horseshoe lay on the top step of D'Arcy's pink-painted caravan it meant that he was "entertaining" and NOT to be disturbed although, in childish innocence, he imagined entertaining meant he must be showing off his juggling or showmanship skills. Which, we shall never know, perhaps Max did.

"We ARE the circus!" became familiar words as mother and son settled into their new lifestyle, Alice being hired as a dancer, but, like all the show folk, helping out with everything else, from selling tickets to grooming the horses to acting as magician's assistant. It was a rallying cry, a cure-all, an explanation, a consolation. It was said if the box office takings were down or if the box office takings were up, if the evening meal was late, if somebody sneezed, if somebody laughed, if torrential rain was gushing down and strong winds threatening to uproot the big top.

The Joneses loved being part of the the insanity. As the very youngest, Slugger (whatever his real name was soon lost in the mists of time: he was Slugger to one and all, even his own mother) grew used to being cooed over by Freda (Fat Lady with Moustache) or watching the Kowalskis, gifted acrobats, dance on high wire, or to being carried on the strongman's shoulders when Samson wasn't practising fire-eating or pulling heavy weights with his teeth.

His schooling was erratic and he gained only a smattering of formal education. He was ostracised by the other children, who picked fights and called him _"one of the dirty gypos",_ but Slugger was fiercely proud of his background. He thought of the travelling fair as his home and the travelling folk as his kith and kin and would have defended his friends to the hilt. Moreover, he had discovered a taste and a talent for boxing and he thoroughly enjoyed taking assailants, often two, three, even four at a time, by surprise with nifty footwork and prowess with his fists.

In an ideal world, the educational establishments he attended would have seized the chance to bask in the reflected glory of Master Jones's athletic skills and he would have been feted and begged to demonstrate the Queensberry rules or at least been snapped up by their football or cricket team. But this is not an ideal world, prejudice is rife, and instead Slugger spent more time defending himself than being educated.

He was barely fourteen when Alice, her lungs never very strong after the early years of dire poverty, caught pneumonia and passed away. The Shaws paid for a grand funeral. An ornate gravestone and the statue of an angel marked her last resting place, under the yew tree, sheltered from the north wind and ravages of time. Slugger had always had a natural affinity with the horses that pulled the caravans though, sadly, they were far fewer now than they had once been as increasing fortunes purchased motorized caravans and replaced horse power. Afterwards, wishing to be alone in his grief, he rode his favourite horse, Dandy far, far into the night.

By the silent light of the moon, through a mist of tears, he watched the blue smoke of their breath rise and fade on the icy air and tiny flakes of snow fall into the blanket of white. All that he had was gone...


	22. Chapter 22

*****Chapter 22*****

*****Slugger's Story*** (Part Four)**

An hour or more, while the snow gathered an angry strength, frosting the barren tree braches and freezing the chattering stream, Slugger rode aimlessly through the lonely hills, pondering on his uncertain future. He had left school just a few short weeks ago and was free as a bird to go anywhere he chose. But where would he go? He had no home, no money, no job. The travelling fair was the only life he had ever known, the only family he had ever loved. He rode slowly back, having reached no answer, a solitary trail of hoof prints growing sadly behind him in the quiet winter's snow.

Eddie and Barbara were waiting, shivering, by the edge of the camp, their soaking hair plastered against their pinched faces as if they'd been watching out for him on that cold, cold night for some time.

"Where the hell have you been?" Barbara demanded, running to him as he jumped down from Dandy, her heavy eyeshadow and thick mascara smudged by the tears she had shed for the youngster. "We've been worried sick."

Slugger shrugged. "Riding. Wondering where to go, what to do. I got no job and nowhere to live now Ma's dead."

Eddie half laughed, half cried as he squeezed Slugger's shoulder."You ****ing little idiot. This _is_ where you live, boy. You think we'd kick you out?"

"And welcome home," Barbara said quietly, her voice choked with emotion, as she gave him a tender peck on the cheek.

He told Dandy all about his unnecessary worrying the next time they rode out together. In the absence of companions his own age the horses had long been his confidants. Sometimes, deep in the arms of sleep, he would dream a strange dream of another life, another time. Sometimes the dreams were so real that he would hear a whinnying, a stomping of hooves and the vague murmur of voices, smell the sweet smell of the hay, almost touch the the gnarled wood of the ancient tree, lashed by lightning, but still defiant. Madame Zola, the fortune teller, had told him this would be so, but he never once believed in ghosts, devils or omens, and would laugh at his wild imagination when he woke anew.

Madame Zola was a small, round woman, nut brown and wrinkled by the sun, the only one among them who could speak the Romany tongue. She had arrived at Eddie Shaw's Travelling Fair one late summer's evening a year or so after his mother's death, when the smell of newly cut grass scented the air and a red sun was sinking slowly below the horizon.

The company was in relaxed mood, laughing and joking, preparing to move on the next day. She cast her shadow first, briefly darkening where Eddie stood smoking, to whisper something in his ear. Those close enough to see, reported that he started and turned deathly white but, whatever secret they shared, they took to their graves, for the mood turned suddenly lighter. Eddie guffawed, showing a mouthful of yellow, broken teeth as he plucked the last of the cigarette from his mouth and stomped it beneath the heel of his boot. "Then you're welcome to travel with us," he was heard to say.

And so it was that Madame Zola too joined the travelling fair. She made no secret of the fact that she had come to die among her own kind and she told their fortune to any who would listen. But of herself, Madame Zola revealed only her name, whether her own or no, and that, many years ago, as she claimed her spirit guide had predicted, she lost her husband and children when villagers set fire to the gypsy camp site; that she had wandered alone telling fortunes ever since.

"You have a way with animals," she remarked one day, as Slugger prepared to take Dandy out for a morning canter. She turned to him, her weak eyes wise though I'm afraid the irreverent youth sniggered at her words. "In the fiercest storm the tree with the strongest heart will stand. Your destiny is not of the warrior. Your destiny will be to care for these noble creatures."

Madame Zola passed away in her sleep some six months later and, as he grew older and the dreams faded, Slugger forgot all about the strange prophesy. On his own suggestion, he had begun to earn his keep as a fairground boxer and he felt he'd found his niche, thoroughly enjoying the thrill of the boxing ring, the roar of the crowds and the adrenalin of thunderous applause. Several times, when the fair set up in a new town, Slugger, who had an eye for a pretty girl, fell in love, or thought he did, but he he loved too the freedom of the fair and was close as a grandson to Eddie and Barbara. And while he wavered, torn between both worlds, his latest flame would inevitably tire of waiting and jilt him so that yet again Slugger would be left nursing a broken heart.

And then, as often happens, fate snatched the decision out of his hands.

Eddie died of cancer and Barbara, in poor health, survived him by only a few months. In the travelling fair, cracks began to appear and spread like shattered ice. Such shows were rapidly falling from favour as cinemas gained popularity and the takings plummeted. No new acts had been signed for several years, the Kowalskis had left when Anna became pregnant and others had retired. The Shaws' original intention had been to leave everything to Slugger, but sadly they never got round to making a will. A nephew Barbara never knew inherited every penny and Frederick immediately set about selling the lot.

Talk of an impending war consumed the country and on an impulse, telling himself he had no ties to keep him there, Slugger signed up to join the Army. Ironically, he met his soul-mate on that very same day.

It was a rowdy bunch of patriotic would-be war heroes who met by chance at the recruiting station and who one and all agreed they deserved a last drinking binge before their postings. Thus, without further ado, they sought the nearest public house and roared inside (if there is a more apt word to describe how they entered the Sword and Dragon, normally the sedate haunt of draught-playing, newspaper rustling gentlemen, I would dearly like to make its acquaintance) and, fuelled by alcohol and camaraderie, grew ever louder. Nineteen-year-old Phoebe White did her utmost to take their jokes in her stride, this being only her second day working as a barmaid and having been warned to expect a certain amount of ribaldry, so she only flushed and smiled at the compliments. But when one young fellow, unused to drinking such large amounts of alcohol and drunk as a lord, began slobbering over her she finally burst into tears. Slugger jumped up to chivalrously rescue the damsel in distress only for a human mini tornado to beat him to it, flying through the door, tossing hat and coat aside in mid flight and wrestling the troublemaker so quickly and expertly to the beer-soaked floorboards that he begged for mercy. All that was left for Slugger to do was to gallantly help both ladies to their feet and apologise for his companion's lewd behaviour while a couple of his drinking buddies took Alfie outside for some much-needed fresh air.

"Tiny" Mulholland returned Slugger's smile and their eyes met. No music played and no stars fell from the sky. A punter pushed open the door, a red bus thundered past and the smoke and fumes of London's rainswept night carried inside. This was all. Yet even before he learnt, as well as being head barmaid at the Sword and Dragon, Betty was, in her spare time, a wrestler and even before she learnt, as well as being a soldier, Slugger was in fact a boxer, they somehow knew they were kindred spirits. Her photo, cherished and crumpled and carried close to his heart, sat on the kitchen table at Follyfoot now.

Slugger grinned at Jimmy. He hadn't thought about Madame Zola's prophecy in years, not until an hour or two ago, when he'd been startled to come across the lightning-struck tree that he'd seen in his dreams. It had been an odd feeling to see it again though he'd said nothing to Davey, who was talking nineteen to the dozen as he gave him an informal tour of Follyfoot. It would have been too crazy to admit it was almost like coming home.

"We've been drinking to absent loved ones," he said, raising his glass to Jimmy and winking. And then he said something that sealed a friendship. "Including loved ones I never knew but which Davey has told me all about. To Beauty and Magic."


	23. Chapter 23

_**Author's Note: Apologies if this chapter sounds a bit sexist in parts, it's set back in 1939!**_

*****Chapter 23*****

*****Rose*****

It was Davey who came up with the solution to his friend's dilemma.

Jimmy had had long chats with his wife and still hadn't reached a decision although the merciless clock was ticking away. Accepting the Maddocks' offer of the important posting in London would mean him playing a major part in shortening, perhaps even averting, the impending war, as well as repaying his employers' generosity. But Rose and the children loved Whistedown and, besides, how could he risk them being in what would probaby be the most dangerous city to live in if war broke out? Of course, he knew the Maddocks would do their utmost to keep them all safe, but who knew what might go on in wartime? Yet what was the alternative? If he stayed in Whistledown until such time came - as indeed it would, so promised those who had lived through the terrible Great War - every man was called upon to don uniform and fight for his country he would have let Arthur and Prudence down and achieved nothing. Perhaps the answer was for Jimmy to go alone to London, but then again how could he leave his family in Whistledown? When countries were at war, transport and communications often broke down and he might not hear from them in months, perhaps even years.

Rose wept a little and then, mindful that the children would soon be home from school, quickly dabbed her eyes when Jimmy first told her that Follyfoot Farm was to be closed, and of the London job offer. She loved their homely cottage and pottering in the large garden with its blackberry bush, apple tree and pear tree and where they grew too many of their own vegetables. Other women might want careers in this fast-moving, modern world, she often remarked, and good for them, women SHOULD be lawyers and politicians and company directors if they so desired. But as for herself, SHE was quite content and at her very happiest being a homemaker. But she understood how much the Maddocks were depending on her husband to help in their top secret war work though Jimmy was not at liberty to tell even his wife of exactly what it involved. If it meant living in London, she said, drawing a shaky, tearful breath, so be it.

Rose Turner was a quiet, old-fashioned soul. She had come to Whisteldown to live with her widowed great-aunt Maud, her last living relative, when she was nine. Maud Prole, who always smelled of lavender and wore her silver hair in a tight bun, was a very stern but kind old lady, if a trifle eccentric. With an eye to helping her great-niece overcome her shyness, or so she thought, she would every Monday send Rose to Whistledown Junior School with slices of home-baked pie filled with cherry, apple or rhubarb (sometimes all three) to share among her schoolmates.

Poor Rose came to dread Mondays when she and Aunt Maud would walk to the gates carrying a full basket each, for the very moment her aunt left, the hitherto polite little children who had greeted her with a cheery "Good day, Mrs Prole. I trust you is well?" would turn suddenly into ravenous beasts as they surrounded Rose and snatched the thickest pieces they could find, leaving many more of their companions angry at being left without and Rose blushing furiously. Now this unfortunately earned Rose the nickname "_Rosy Red, The Pie Girl" _and made her even more timid and reluctant to make friends than ever before.

One particular morning, when the swarming crowd pushed her so far back against the wall that Rose burst into terrified tears, Jimmy, who, I'm afraid until then had been as rough and greedy as the rest, took pity and loudly demanded - and amazingly GOT his request to the great amusement of Miss Thompson, who had come to investigate the commotion - that the urchins immediately form an orderly queue.

After that, things settled down a great deal. Miss Thompson, now that she was aware of the reason for the regular Monday hubbub in the junior playground and why many of the pupils didn't eat their packed lunches, thanked Mrs Prole for her kind gesture, diplomatically suggested that she cut the slices of pie much thinner and wrap them in paper napkins, then appointed Jimmy "Pie Monitor" to help Rose dole out the sugary snacks - AFTER lessons only. Their friendship blossomed and in time Rose outgrew her shyness. It was almost inevitable that in later years they would fall in love and marry.

If only there was family to help out, Jimmy thought, sighing heavily as he worked with Davey securing windows and doors (for much of Follyfoot was to remain unused for the foreseeable future) the London decision would not have been so difficult. But there was no one at all.

Maud died soon after they married and Jimmy was the only one left now of his own family: his father and two eldest brothers had been killed in the Great War; two sisters died of dysentery when they were very young and his poor mother, who survived them all, was long since passed away from both exhaustion and grief. If only there was someone he could trust to care for Rose, Peggy and Johnjo. Rose was of course perfectly capable, but looking after a home and two young children as well as growing fruit and vegetables and working at the laundry would leave her spent. And what of the heavier jobs, if a tree needed chopping or a fence fixing or a window replacing? Of course they had friends but friends had their own families who needed such help even more now that many of the men were joining up and blood _was_ thicker than water.

And then Davey made his suggestion. "You know, Jim," he said thoughtfully, totally unaware it was a course Jimmy and Rose had already been considering. "If Rosie and the bairns were to stay in Whistledown while yer went to the smoke, I could keep an eye on 'em, me and Beth both, while I'm a-caretakin' Follyfoot. What could be better? The Maddocks is keepin' an emergency telephone line in the manor 'ouse so yers could each pass messages through me and if the enemy gets clever and brings down the lines, I'll find meself a Black Bess and ride all the way to London!"

It was the perfect answer. Davey was like a son and the children adored him. He was far from being the brightest button in the box but he had the biggest heart and Jimmy trusted him more than he trusted anyone else. Emotionally, he jumped up and hugged him.

"Steady now, mate!" Davey grinned good-naturedly, staggering backwards at the force of the hug and slightly embarrassed, for this was a time when men thought such gestures unmanly. "And, mind, not too much lovey-dovey stuff in your messages back and forth, I wouldn't feel right sayin' such things to another man's wife."

Thus it was settled. The night before he told the Maddocks, Jimmy and Rose sat talking, weeping, kissing and hugging deep into the night, with gallons of scalding tea consumed and biscuits dunked, with the hint of winter whistling down from the hills and the cosy glow of the firelight.

Jimmy would go to London alone.

And if I break your heart in the next chapters with what I have to tell you, well then, it happened so what can I do I but break your heart?


	24. Chapter 24

*****chapter 24*****

*****Regal Gardens*****

The week before war broke out, the Turner family, in their Sunday finery, had attended as usual the old Whistledown church that, with its stone gargoyles crouched above the arched entrance, its ancient headstones and twisted spire will be so familiar to many of you.

It was a bright, sunny day and Jimmy and Rose decided what did it matter if best clothes got muddy from last night's downpour, they would take advantage of both the warm sunshine and what little time they had left together and take the children for a long stroll before dinner. Back then, before exceptionally harsh winters and, in particular, the great floods of 1947 destroyed much of it forever, there was a place that was hugely popular with walkers of all ages and ability. Now nobody could recollect how Regal Gardens had ever acquired such a grand name, but over the course of a century, and as if to prove they could do just as well as any city dweller, the Yorkshire folk had created their very own park in the Yorkshire countryside!

Stone walls surrounded the sizeable area. Here could be found a children's playground complete with swings, slides, seesaws and climbing frames, wooden benches carved out of fallen logs, and a two-seater swing covered by a glorious bower where many a love-smitten youth proposed to his sweetheart. Regal Gardens even boasted its very own bandstand that doubled too as a draughty "theatre" where village schools performed summer shows and, good, bad or indifferent, amateur actors/singers/comedians, indeed, anyone, with or without a talent, entertained anyone who might or might not want to listen.

At the heart of Regal Gardens was a chattering, sparkling brook, called simply, and with a peculiar lack of imagination, The Beck, across which had been built two wooden bridges known as, for reasons long lost in the mists of time, Queen's Walk and King's Walk. It was rumoured that the bridges were magic and granted wishes to the favoured, for they led to a small copse in which were dozens and dozens of wooden sculptures of characters and creatures from every fairytale and many children's stories. It had long been a Yorkshire tradition to carve and hide the sculptures in the copse and a superstition that, once placed, they should never be removed or bad luck would follow.

The ornaments, it has to be said, were not always good and sometimes they were downright unrecognisable, being made as they were by amateur craftsmen and women, but this only added to the fun. It was charming to see parents and grandparents taking children over "the wishing bridges" to search for, and try to identify, the sculptures just as they had once done themselves.

It was here, on the King's Walk wishing bridge. that the Turner family bumped into Davey and his pretty young wife, Beth.

"The very people!" cried Beth in delight.

"Now didn't I tell you wishes came true on these bridges?" Davey winked at his wife, as he held out two tiny wooden horses painted black. "I don't rightly know if they counts," he added, to Peggy and Johnjo; "seein' as they was never in a story like Black Beauty and they never was famous like 'Opalong Cassidy's 'orse Topper, but if anyone asks we could always pretend they was two of the king's 'orses tryin' to put 'Umpty Dumpty together again."

He was a talented artist and had captured their very essence. Anyone who had ever seen Follyfoot Farm's Beauty and Magic, even if only once, would have known them immediately…


	25. Chapter 25

*****chapter 25*****

*****Friendship*****

It always saddened Jimmy to know Davey and Beth were atheists, falling in with the modern way of thinking that religion was, at best, for gullible fools. Davey had even told Jimmy and Rose that the only reason they'd married in a church had been to _"please Beth's Ma and Da". _

The sun was pleasantly warm and Regal Gardens, with its majestic trees, wild flowers and birdsong, held a timeless beauty to captivate the coldest heart and music to soothe the weariest soul. But Jimmy found himself sighing. He and Davey enjoyed many friendly debates, over sport, over whether or not the Loch Ness monster really existed, over whether sausage and mash or hotpot was the most filling meal, over a dozen and one other inconsequential things, but religion, something which mattered a great deal to Jimmy, was the one topic on which they strongly disagreed. It worried him that his friends never prayed or attended church or even owned a Bible. Keep holy the Sabbath day, the Commandments said, but Davey and Beth would have laughed at anyone who even suggested they should. Rose would of course ensure the children kept their faith but what sort of influence would Davey and Beth's views have on Peggy and Johnjo in the years to come?

Yet as he stood on the wishing bridge that day and a little scene unfolded he couldn't help but wonder if the young folk had it right.

Beth was deep in conversation with Rose and from her giggles and Rose's amused smiles, he suspected they were discussing their menfolk. Davey was leaning against the bridge, talking with Peggy and Johnjo, who each held one of the wooden horses he'd sculpted to represent Beauty and Magic. And, it seemed, they were not destined for Fairytale Copse after all."

"'Cos it wouldn't be right if we said they were the King's Horses when they weren't," Peggy was saying gravely.

"Mam and Dada say we should never lie," Johnjo chipped in.

"So now…" Davey scratched his ear and screwed up his face, feigning bafflement, but he knew perfectly well what they were hankering after. "This is a knotty problem and no mistake. If we're not allowed to put Beauty and Magic in Fairytale Copse 'cos they never got to be famous and never got to be in a book or on the flicks, I don't rightly know what we're gonna do with 'em."

"Well…I s'pose I could look after Beauty…" Peggy drawled, as though the idea had only just occurred to her.

"And I could keep Magic!" Johnjo finished.

Stifling his amusement, Davey raised his eyebrows in askance at Jimmy. It had been by happy coincidence that he'd met the Turner family in Regal Gardens today. He and Beth had planned to follow the old Yorkshire tradition of placing the sculptures in Fairytale Copse and to take the children there at a later date to surprise them with the carvings of Beauty and Magic.

"Seems the only solution, mate," Jimmy shrugged, and laughed at Peggy and Johnjo's delight. Espying two large gull feathers on the wooden platform of King's Bridge, he stooped down to pick them up. Regal Gardens teemed with birdlife and dozens such were often to be found here.

"Well, I'm blowed, Davey!" He declared, placing them in his children's hair. "Peggy and Johnjo have turned into a couple of Red Indians!"

"Oh, Dada!" Peggy sighed, as she immediately untangled the feather from her toffee-coloured tresses again. "I'm eleven now, I'm too big to play Red Indians! Though I might use it to make something some time." She added kindly, with a tolerant smile as though the roles had reversed and she were the parent and Jimmy the child.

Johnjo too pulled the feather out of his hair.

"My name is John!" He said tearfully. "It's John James, Dada, not Johnjo!"

Poor Jimmy felt his heart surely snap in two. He hadn't realised just how fast Peggy was growing up and he'd forgotten Rose told him Johnjo's friends had been teasing him lately over his "baby" name. He'd been so busy with his chauffeur duties, ferrying Arthur and Prudence Maddocks to and from their important political meetings. Some nights he got back so late and was required so early in the morning that he never had time to go home at all and stayed the night at Follyfoot Farm.

Rose and Beth, who had been walking a little distance ahead, came back to see whatever was the to-do with Johnjo, but Davey already had the little boy laughing again.

"You're lucky 'cos yer got two names like me and only special people got two names like that. Me mates call me Davey and me family calls me David. Yer can be John with yer mates and Johnjo with the family. As for this feather now…" he tickled Johnjo's chin. "Me old Ma always said angels leave 'em for us to find to let us know when they're thinking' of us."

"Exactly what my grandma used to say too!" Beth said.

Peggy gasped, enchanted. "Do you think it could be the very same angel who collected Beauty when she died and took her to Heaven and the very same angel who collected Magic when Magic died to take to Heaven?" she asked, without pausing for breath, while Johnjo waited in wide-eyed anticipation for Davey's answer.

"Could be," Davey said gravely, and winked at Beth. "What d'yer reckon then, girl?"

_"Could_ be!" She chided, slapping his shoulder teasingly. "Why, Davey, of course they were the very same angels!"

"Well, that's that then, it must be so," Davey said firmly. "And seein' as all this magic is around and we're standin' 'ere on a wishin' bridge we'd all best close our eyes and make a wish."

"You know, all that really matters is true friends," Rose whispered to Jimmy, slipping her arm around his waist and smiling with him at the little group, Davey and Beth half laughing, half peeking at each other, Peggy and Johnjo with eyelids shut tight in concentration.

Jimmy nodded agreement. Rose was right, he realised. What did it matter if Davey and Beth were non-believers? What did it matter that they weren't worshippers? They would teach Peggy and Johnjo far greater values like love and kindness. And the world was full of hypocrites. Only last year there had been the terrible scandal in Ashtree when a bank official, known as a _"churchgoing pillar of the community"_ was discovered to have been embezzling charity funds for years, stealing thousands of pounds meant to help the families of men killed or wounded in the Great War.

"You know what I wish for, love?" Rose remarked, snuggling closer. "That this evil man Hitler could be stopped in his tracks. That the whole world could be friends."

"Me too, Rosie, me too," Jimmy murmured, and kissed her cheek gently. "Who knows? Maybe it will come to pass. Maybe another great war will never be."

But even as he looked up at the perfect azure sky and sent a silent prayer for peace, the sun slipped sadly behind a cloud as if it knew.


	26. Chapter 26

*****chapter 26****

******A Promise*****

The closure of Follyfoot Farm was imminent. Only a handful of essential staff remained now. Some of the older staff, such as Keeper of Keys, had been pensioned off. Everyone else had been transferred to new locations or joined the Army, Navy and Airforce.

As they were very soon to be separated, Slugger suggested that he, Jimmy and Davey _"sup a farewell pint"_ together. Realising that with the impending war it might be several years before they had the chance to do so again, the Maddocks readily agreed. And so, having gained the consent of their employers for a rare night off, the afternoon of the planned outing the three friends sat round Follyfoot Farm's kitchen table. They needed to _"map out a plan of campaign",_ as Slugger termed it.

With Davey contributing geographical knowledge, Slugger licked a pencil and began sketching a map on the back of a Woodbines packet of the quickest route to all the village pubs. They should start and finish at Whistledown, Slugger proposed, calling at Kettlefield, Foxhill, Froglea, Loppington, Haydingle and Hillingwood inbetween. Poor Jimmy was scandalized. When he'd agreed to the drinking session, he'd imagined they would retire sedately to his local, Whistledown's The Three Bells, where they would chat demurely and enjoy three or perhaps even four beers and a leisurely game of darts. But Slugger was adamant and an adamant Slugger with the gift of the gab was a force to be reckoned with. Before very long Jimmy, without knowing how, found he had agreed, and even enthusiastically, to the pub crawl.

Oh, that enchanted night with thousands of stars! A night born to be cherished and remembered forever, to be plucked from memory year after year, dusted down, and re-lived with tears and smiles. With all minds on the looming war, there was a mixture of patriotism and sadness and a wonderful camaraderie in the village pubs. Sings songs and drunken dancing broke out at a moment's notice, lipstick-stained kisses were to be found on many a man's face and neck, people who had never met before bought each other drinks and gave away precious cigarettes. Wiping damp eyes, shouting advice, coarse or otherwise, on how to deal with the enemy, strangers waved off strangers as though bidding farewell to lifelong friends. Smoky breaths rose high on the crisp air as men blew on their hands and stamped their feet, for although it was late August and the days filled with glorious sunshine, a sharp frost fell in the open, rugged Yorkshire countryside by night.

Slugger, Jimmy and Davey, as pleased with themselves as only the drunk can be, at last staggered out of The Three Bells, the start and finish of their journey. Arm-in-arm, singing a loud repertoire of songs, from _A Long Way to Tipperary_ to _Little Brown Jug_ to _Whistle While You Work_, they headed jovially back towards Follyfoot Farm.

Now I've thought long and hard about it, I really have. But I still can't tell you how it was our inebriated trio managed to make their way up from Whistledown Village to the very top of the frost-coated and notoriously steep hill of Whistledown Lane without ever once falling over. Yet, lurching like ships on a stormy sea, bellowing _Knees Up, Mother Brown_, somehow they made it. (Jimmy, a devout churchgoing Christian, blushed at Slugger's introduction of bloomers and sexual innuendo into the song, but as a swaying Davey, holding on to the signpost, was as keen to learn the risqué words as a speech-slurred Slugger was to teach them, he decided where was the harm for once and joined in with gusto).

They stopped at the very same spot where Dora, one winter's day many years later, when snow glistened diamond like on bare tree branches, would pause to admire her first breathtaking view of Follyfoot Farm covered by a blanket of white. Perhaps it was the drink that made them maudlin, perhaps it was the magic they say touches the very air here, believe what you will, but a silence descended upon the three companions. Down at the bottom of the hill, the Farm was dark and quiet like a shadow of its former self. Only the stables, long empty and neglected, gave any hint that all was not yet quite deserted, for nearby the lightning tree swayed and shone eerily silver in the moonlight, while the night-grey grass, rippled by the whistling wind, seemed dented by the footfalls of some ghostly procession.

Davey broke the silence.

"Mates. I've summat to tell yers. When I was on the Wishin' Bridge and the bairns made a wish, so did I. I wished the tree struck by lightnin' would grow again and Follyfoot could be 'ow it was. I know, I know, it's daft, and I'm no bairn to believe in such tales, but…" He gave heartfelt sigh.

"T'ain't daft at all, lad," Jimmy said, patting his shoulder. "We all wish Follyfoot Farm could go back to how it used to be. A home for so many of us, somewhere to belong. There's nary a man, woman nor bairn don't wish for such a place."

Slugger gazed pensively down at the moonlit tree, recollecting his days with Eddie Shaw's Travelling Fair. "Aye. Took us in when we 'ad no-one, they did, the great unwanted and the great unwashed themselves." He shook his head nostalgically and passed a hand over his face.

"Anyroads," Davey continued in the same croaky voice. "I got to thinkin' 'bout the daffodils that grow year on year in yon meadow. And I thoughts to meself if the daffodils can grow again why not our lightnin' tree? It were there for us through thick 'n' thin at Follyfoot, it WERE Follyfoot, who's to say it won't be again?"

"She said the tree with the strongest heart would stand," Slugger nodded agreement, pondering on Madame Zola's prediction told long ago.

Davey grinned sheepishly. "Well, boys, yer might say I'm not the full shillin' and I wouldn't blame yers if yer did, but every mornin' I've been takin' a bucket of water to chuck over its roots. See, if dreams were to come true now…well, dreams would come true." He looked down at the pool of moonlight and his voice, a little choked, trailed away.

"Follyfoot Farm WILL be Follyfoot Farm again one day," Jimmy promised stoutly. "We can only be patient and hope the coming war is done with quickly. There's nowt much we can do till then."

"B****r nowt we can do, lads!" Slugger declared heatedly. "Let's make a solemn promise 'ere and now. Each of us, whenever we can, we'll pour a bucket of water over our lightnin' tree till Follyfoot grows again!"

With drunken whoops and shouts, with much waving of fists in the air and pats of backs, they shook hands on it, all three, turning away for a while from where moonlight danced.

A dream then. It had to be a dream. This Follyfoot, this heart, this whisper that calls the lonely home. A slip of the moon, a stir of the lake, a whistling of the wind. Down by the lightning tree, two silhouettes, surely two horses, black as night, and then gone.


	27. Chapter 27

*****Chapter 27*****

*****The War Years*** **

It was a bright, sunny Sunday morning when the Maddocks requested their employees gather in the polished, cluttered parlour with its bright, airy windows and panoramic views of the distant moors. In preparation for its closure, most of Follyfoot Farm was boarded up and unused now and its remaining occupants very few indeed. Prudence and Arthur still kept a distance from their staff, but the old-fashioned, almost Victorian, upstairs/downstairs etiquette of the old days had gone, to be replaced by a guarded friendliness. Now this might have been the sombre realization that death makes all of us equal or it might have been the influence of the eccentric genius Colonel Maddocks. Ignoring Arthur and Prudence's frowns, Geoffrey would often stop to chat with anyone at Follyfoot, no matter how lowly their status, usually about animals or the wildlife that abounded in the glorious Yorkshire countryside.

"For an Army man, who ought to be occupying himself with fighting men and matters of war, my brother is a deal too concerned about horses, dogs, ducks, shrews, foxes and bally well ANYTHING that has four legs or fur or wings," Arthur was heard sighing to his wife. And he quaffed his brandy so quickly that his moustache received an unexpected soaking.

But in time and by that fateful morning their dreadful snobbery was slowly crumbling tier by tier. Dust motes danced in through sun-sparkled windows, the crisp scents of autumn swept inside, and birds chirped merrily down from roofs and treetops, welcoming the beauty of the day. But in the manor house everyone stared gravely at the wireless set.

Two or three of the group kept their hands clasped and their eyes cast down; even the garrulous Slugger Jones was quiet for once, and a single, silent tear rolled unchecked down the cheek of Mrs Crane, the cook, to sink unheard into the luxurious thick carpet. It was no surprise to anyone in Britain that war was on the horizon; the only question on anyone's lips was when. All that morning there had been frequent pauses in the lofty classical music while the BBC broadcaster warned the nation to _"stand by for an announcement of international importance"._

And at 11.15, just as the antique pendulum clock, for the first time ever in its 125-year-old history, skipped a tick like a heartbeat, that announcement came.

Neville Chambelain's sombre voice broke through the crackling airwaves:-

_"I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10, Downing Street. This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by 11.00 a.m. that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us._

_I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany."_

Mrs Crane's silent tears turned into muffled sobs. Outside, the tree branches suddenly shook like fists as the wind whistled eerily down from the wild, barren moors.

The war dragged on longer than anyone had anticipated and in time every man, including Davey, received his call-up papers. "Caretaker to Follyfoot Farm" was NOT considered an exempt occupation, even if your employers had once been members of Parliament (only the prime minister and a handful of trusted people knew that Arthur and Prudence were secretly still very much involved in war work; to all intents and purposes they had quit the political scene altogether). Although they tried, the Maddocks could pull no strings to prevent his conscription without blowing their own cover and, in truth, Davey, being young and idealistic, and having established that both Rose and Beth were more than capable of managing on their own, was quite glad to go.

"I'm proud to wear a man's uniform," he told a weeping Beth as he bolted the doors at Follyfoot for the last time. "Don't fret, lass. And make sure yer keeps that kettle on the boil, I'll sort out the Jerries and be back before yer've blinked."

Changes were afoot everywhere, and, just as in the First World War, women took on new responsibilities. Beth, missing her husband greatly and itching to play her part, went to train as a nurse. Rose too was kept extremely busy, being very much involved in Whistedown School and the invasion of the evacuees.

Like many villages, Whistledown had received an influx of city children, rough, ragged urchins, pale, skinny and nasal, who stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the open countryside, picked fights with the local youngsters, and ran away screaming from sheep and cows, the like of which they'd never seen before. But the dust settled and those not taken back home by anxious mothers pining for their offspring soon thrived on the country air, and grew healthy and strong.

One in particular, Tom Stokes, arriving as a sturdy, scowling boy of twelve, motherless from the age of seven, and having nobody in the world but a violent, heavy drinking stepfather rejected even by the Army in their hour of greatest need, progressed in two years from loud-mouthed bully to an extremely likeable youth. Tom would often help Peggy and Johnjo take groups of little ones out pony-riding and it gladdened Rose's heart to watch as they headed towards Follyfoot Farm, taking the same scenic route as Davey used when they rode on Beauty. And though she worried that Tom and Peggy were of an age when innocent kisses might lead to much, much more, and Peggy turned pink as the sunset sky when her mother told her of the birds and bees, the two teenagers proved surprisingly responsible.

At Ashtree Picture House, an impromptu conga dance spilled out onto the streets when Pathe News reported on the overwhelming success of D-Day and, as other victories followed thick and fast, a wonderful mood of optimism prevailed. Everyone talked excitedly of being reunited with loved ones, Winston Churchill made stirring speeches, and it seemed nothing could mar the happiness as an end to hostilities became an ever brighter glimmer on the horizon.

But one bleak morning when, for the third day in a row, rain fell in a steady grey drizzle, and farmers despaired of waterlogged fields and ruined crops, a telegram boy cycled from Ashtree Telegraph Office to Whistledown to call at a certain pretty little cottage with a horse-shoe nailed on its door…


	28. Chapter 28

*****chapter 28*****

*****Memories*** **

Oh, how the wind whistled and blustered around Follyfoot Farm that day! Although it was May and the early sun had been tentatively warm, petals were torn away from spring flowers, shutters rattled furiously and small silver clouds raced each other over hills and dales as the wind determinedly gathered all its might. The small knot of people caught in its cruel breath shivered with cold.

They had brought with them down to the lightning tree but a single wreath, for the one so loved hated fuss and never stood on grand ceremonies. But something more had to be done. Something more than a minister reading a long eulogy in a church where he never worshipped, quoting passages from a Bible he never read, putting faith in a God he never believed in.

And so, days after the end of war and shortly after the official funeral, those who knew him best came to remember him here at Follyfoot Farm, the place, man and boy, he had loved most. Davey would never come home; his footfall would never again dint the soil nor his cheery voice call out in greeting, but long ago Follyfoot, as only Follyfoot can, had stolen and kept his heart.

There were few to attend the tender tribute. Ironically, Davey had been killed in action only a week before the signing of the Armistice and his many friends were still scattered among the Military or still working in posts far away. His large family were drinkers, fighters, gamblers and thieves, and they had long since washed their hands of their only "black sheep" law-abiding citizen. Although they turned out in force for the no-expense-spared after-funeral function held at Ashtree's grandest hotel (Whistledown and nearer villages not being grand enough even to own one) and paid for by the Maddocks, and three or four of Davey's relatives managing to get themselves arrested for being drunk and disorderly in the process.

But his estranged family was of no concern to the group who stood by the lightning tree in a fitting and unique tribute to their friend. Nobody wore black, as they had in church. Davey always said life should be celebrated, not mourned, and then folk move on; why should the dead stop the living from living? Nobody said any prayers, at least not aloud. Davey always said prayers were invented to control the brainwashed masses; why must folk mumble to themselves like madmen?

Instead they shared, with laughter and tears, the memories they held so dear.

His heartbroken widow, thin, pale and beautiful, kissed a rose and laid it gently on top of the garland. And then, wiping her eyes, Beth smiled a tremulous smile and told of their very first kiss.

It was shortly before Christmas, Beth recalled. She had trudged through ankle deep snow from Loppington, where she worked as shop girl for an exclusive dressmaker, with a selection of fancy ribbons for Lady Prudence Maddocks, to choose which she would prefer for the new Christmas ball gown she was having made. Protocol dictated she walk round to the back door, but, cold and tired, Beth dared take the front. She had heard on the grapevine that the Maddocks were kindly employers and she hoped the housemaid would simply overlook the transgression.

Before she could ring the bell, however, the door burst suddenly open, the "stable boy", as first she knew him, winked at the mistletoe above, planted a hasty kiss on her lips, and hurried on by, immediately followed by, rather curiously, a black cat with a kipper in its mouth, a man's boot, a scowling, limping, one-shoed man carrying a bunch of keys, and a frantic kitchen maid begging him "not to hurt the boy".

But the kiss tasted sweet as honey, Beth recollected, and small wonder, she continued, smiling nostalgically, it turned out Davey had helped himself to a thick slice of honey on toast from the silver breakfast tray and treated Sally the cat to the best slice of fish. Young Miss Harris, however, had a sweetheart and firm morals, and, despite the sweet kiss, remained unimpressed…


	29. Chapter 29

*****chapter 29*****

*****Tears and Goodbyes*****

It would be some years later when Beth and Davey would meet again, at Loppington's Annual Harvest Festival Dance, and fall in love. Davey had by then grown into an honest, hard-working young man, thanks to Jimmy, Beth finished, dabbing her eyes at the tender memories held in her heart.

Jimmy, who'd been given special leave to travel to Yorkshire, had many anecdotes of their time working together; Rose half laughed, half cried as she told of Davey's escapades in the early days when she first knew him; while Peggy and Johnjo talked fondly of when they rode Beauty and pointed to where the mis-spelt name _"Booty"_ could still be seen carved into the lightning tree.

Shadows began to fall on Follyfoot Farm. The lake, that in years gone by had gleamed with sunshine and teemed with ducks and swans, dimmed and dulled as darkness stole like a thief across the evening sky. Birds folded wings, flowers closed buds, and the creatures of the night, bats and beetles, mice and owls, scurried about their busy worlds. Still they talked on. There was so much about Davey to remember. So many tales to tell. And who to tell them if not those who loved him best?

Slugger was last to speak. He pulled a folded, crumpled envelope from inside his Army jacket, extracted several crumpled pages, blew off some real or imaginary dust, coughed importantly and began in his own inimitable style:-

"The gaffer Colonel Geoffrey Maddocks, ain't a bad bloke for a toff, take 'em as you find 'em, I say, 'ad some bloody guts with the enemy, 'e did, 'Is Nibs Lord Maddocks and 'is missus, Lady Maddocks, bit up 'er own a**e, that one, send their kind regards and regrets…"

Now if I were to report verbatim how Private Jones chose to translate the Maddocks' letters, we would all still be scratching our heads, filtering out the (oddly non-offensive) swear words, and straining our ears at his colourful colloquialisms a year to this day. Nor, I feel, would it be wise to record in full the long tributes and explanations Geoffrey, Arthur and Prudence had composed, for, in keeping with their vastly expensive and cloistered schooling, the words, though well meant and genuine, were as large and lofty as the handwriting itself. Suffice to say, I will instead do my utmost to explain how things came to br.

Beth, who, like Davey, had no parents, and regarded Rose and Jimmy almost as mother and father-in-law, had notified each as soon as she received the dreaded telegram. Arthur and Prudence generously told Jimmy to take the Rolls and as much time as he needed in Whistledown. Essential Government affairs prevented them from returning themselves, they explained, but in any case, they observed dismissively, nor would it be appropriate for them to attend a servant's funeral, especially one of the lower orders. Snobbish and foolish as they often were, however, and horrified though they would be that anyone should find out, I don't mind telling you that Lord and Lady Maddocks secretly wept together in each other's arms over the loss of Davey and, in truth, I think better of them for it.

Moreover, remembering that Slugger had struck up a strong friendship with both Jimmy and Davey, Arthur had thoughtfully telephoned his brother.

Colonel Maddocks and his batman had lately been posted to Normandy and, with small tears raining shamelessly down his cheeks, Geoffrey called Private Jones to his office and broke the sad news.

"I am so, so sorry, Jones. He was a good man. I'm sorry, too, that the delicate political situation makes it impossible for me to attend the funeral. In any case, the confounded transport problems still upon us makes the possibility of either of us reaching Whistledown in time remote. I only wish there was something I could do…"

He blew his nose hard and distractedly shoved aside some confidential papers sent from Charles de Gaulle, which, such being their importance, he had instructed his aide to carefully re-check before delivery, as if they were of no matter.

Slugger wiped the rough khaki cuff of his sleeve over his own eyes. They had lost many comrades in the war but Davey's death, even though they'd only known him for a very short while, cut them both to the quick. There was something timeless, almost mystical, about Follyfoot that enfolded all, a feeling of second chances, of life and hope and love, of promises and dreams. That Davey had gone from it seemed harsh indeed.

"Not your fault, colonel, sir, that the Frogs are almost as bad as Eyeties for not knowin' which bloody side they're on and now we're stuck out 'ere sortin' out the mess," he replied emotionally.

"Good Lord, there IS a way!" Geoffrey, deep in thought and barely registering his companion's alarming lack of political correctness, suddenly thudded his fist down on the desk, and narrowly missed spilling the contents of the inkwell over the sensitive documents. "Although, admittedly, it's highly irregular and I can only spare the whirlybird for a couple of hours…"

Thus was Slugger transported, by exclusive private helicopter, first to London, where he made a hasty telephone call to fiancée Betty, ate a quick snack with his pilot in the Maddocks' kitchen, flirted briefly and harmlessly with the doe-eyed girl hired to wash dishes, and collected the accolade to Davey, jointly written by Arthur and Prudence, to be read out at Davey's funeral. Then, to the astonishment and terror of several sheep, who had hitherto been placidly munching grass on an uneventful Wednesday afternoon, he landed slap bang in the middle of their Yorkshire field and, holding on to his hat, ran like a madman, leaping streams, dodging cow pats, and cursing sheep droppings, all the way to Whistledown church.

It was an unusually rowdy affair for a funeral.

Mindful of the goodies waiting at The Ashtree Hotel and the fleet of free cars to take them there afterwards, Davey's relatives laughed, joked and jostled, scandalizing the elderly minister and the Whistledown congregation. At one stage, even the grieving widow found herself pushed to one side, and Slugger came from nowhere to catch Beth's left elbow just as Jimmy caught her right.

"Please don't make a fuss," Beth pleaded, as, bristling with rage, Slugger drew a breath to unleash a torrent of swear words at the crowd and clenched his fist into the dangerous right hook he was famed for. "Davey and I never believed in a God. I'd much rather get the service over with quickly as possible and honour him somewhere else."

Their friend's sudden appearance wasn't totally unexpected (although they were unaware of his bizarre travelling arrangements) as Colonel Maddocks had telephoned in advance to say, weather and transport permitting, Private Jones would definitely attend the funeral.

"Beth's right." Rose frowned at Davey's irreverent family and drew closer to her own little fold of Jimmy, Peggy and Johnjo. "This isn't what Davey would have wanted."

Slugger rubbed his ear in puzzlement, accidentally tilting his cap as he did so, a habit that would still be familiar to all who knew him even years later, when a well-worn woollen hat had long since replaced the smart Army head gear.

"Fing is, I've got these 'ere tributes the colonel and the other pair specially wants me to read out. Where would I do that if not in the church?"

Yet, even before he'd finished speaking, Slugger knew the answer. They all did,

With the pages riffling in the wind that whistled through every nook and cranny of Follyfoot Farm, he finished reading the eulogies and respectfully removed his cap. Jimmy picked up the bucket filled with water from the grey lake and poured it solemnly over the roots of the lightning tree. The friends, each with their own thoughts, stood in reflective silence until, as though the very sky would weep too, the silver clouds darkened and large raindrops began to fall, splashing through the trees in melancholy song, drawing the ceremony to its natural close.

They paused to look back once at the top of Whistedown Lane, at the very point that the first magic glimpse of Follyfoot can be seen, where, even now, there are those among us, the seers and the sensitive, who claim to have heard Davey's voice echo through the wind.

_"__I got to thinkin' 'bout the daffodils that grow year on year in yon meadow. And I thoughts to meself if the daffodils can grow again why not our lightnin' tree? It were there for us through thick 'n' thin at Follyfoot, it WERE Follyfoot, who's to say it won't be again?"_

But by the loneliness of night, by the stealth of the moon, the wind picked up the wreath and the rose, spun them and cast them, muddied and broken, far into the distance. Drenched now from the earlier rain, the lightning tree stood alone, solitary guardian of all that had been, watching and waiting for a new dawn.

The days afterwards slowed and calmed. A benevolent sun blazed from an azure sky as the future beckoned, golden with optimism and peace.

Down in the quiet meadow, nodding their heads in the gentle breeze, the daffodils grew.


	30. Chapter 30

*****chapter 30*****

*****The Years Pass By*****

What's past is past, and though the world stops on the loss of a loved one, life can and must go on. As broken-hearted as Beth had been by Davey's death, she was still only young.

When American Harry Jackson, an ex-GI who'd spent some time in England during World War II, came back on a six month vacation, he visited the same hospital in which he'd once been a patient, to take a bouquet of flowers and large tin of biscuits as a thank you to the staff. He was pleasantly surprised to bump into the same pretty young nurse who'd first treated him when he'd been so badly burned during an Army training exercise.

A friendly chat and, upon discovering they both loved the movie, an agreement to catch the re-showing of _The Wizard of Oz_, became the regular meetings of friends. Even before the vacation was over, they had fallen in love and Beth set sail to America as Harry's wife. To begin with, her letters home were newsy and full of photographs, as were the Turner family's letters in return. But, as time went by, she became the mother of twins, moved house two or three times, and had Harry's increasingly frail elderly mother, no longer able to care for herself, come to live with them. As so often happens when our lives move busily on, the letters dwindled and then stopped.

Rose and Johnjo, too, are no longer part of our Follyfoot story, their fate being a much sadder one. Some of you may recall having heard from much older relatives about the terrible outbreak of tuberculosis that affected the rural areas of Yorkshire in the hot summer of 1948, spreading like wildfire in an alarmingly short space of time. The source was eventually found to be an itinerant farm labourer, who had no outward symptoms and was unaware he carried the deadly disease. He readily agreed to be quarantined, but by then several lives had been claimed, Rose's and Johnjo's among them.

Soon afterwards, the Maddocks announced their move to Kensington was to be a permanent one and offered Jimmy and Peggy a cottage in the vast grounds of their luxurious home. To be away from Whistledown for a while seemed the perfect solution - especially as Peggy's teenage sweetheart Tom Stokes, now her fiancé, had gone back to his home city, in a less affluent part of London, to continue with his plumbing apprenticeship.

The young couple returned to Whistledown two years later, to marry in the ancient village church where Rose and Jimmy had been married, and where lies, close to the church door, that famous seventeenth-century grave of the original owner of Follyfoot, Sir Richard Maddocks, bearing the Maddocks' family crest of horse, lion and eagle enclosed in a shield and the Latin motto _vires_ _per licentia_ (strength through freedom).

There never was a prouder father than Jimmy on Peggy's wedding day, with the bells ringing so loud it was as though they would burst for very joy and the sun peeping in through the stained glass windows to dance golden beams of light in silent song.

And as he walked his daughter down the aisle, with the_ Wedding March_ playing on the church organ, and the day so perfect with its cloudless blue skies and kindly summer breezes, two brightly coloured butterflies fluttered inside too, further enchanting the packed congregation, many of whom, even Prudence, dabbing her eyes, and her hat and dress too showy for a tiny village church, and Arthur, standing ramrod straight, in full military uniform decked with medals, gasped in awe at the beauty of the bride. The superstitious said later, although they did not explain how butterflies can know such things, that it surely forecast a long, happy marriage blessed with children and nary a cross word between them.

After a honeymoon paid for by Lord and Lady Maddocks as a wedding present, the newlyweds settled in Whistledown, in the very same cottage that Peggy had grown up in, and that Prudence and Arthur had long ago bought for Jimmy and his family. But it could never be the home it had once been.

Many times Peggy would push open the cottage door, and for half a second think her mother or brother to be there, even drawing breath to speak with them. And then, remembering, she would feel her heart snap in two all over again and would sit on the rickety kitchen stool that Johnjo had made in school, to _"weep a little weep"_, as Rose would have said, drying her eyes on the apron her mother had sewn. For the reminders of those happy yesterdays were everywhere: the musical jewellery box with a dancing ballerina (a gift to Rose from Beth) on the sideboard; the drawing of a neighbour's cat that Johnjo, when four or five, had scribbled on the coal cupboard door; Rose's half finished rag rug and her handwriting on the herb jar labels; the tulips that Johnjo had planted and his "lucky" penny that he always kept on the mantelshelf…Oh, sometimes it was all poor Peggy could do not to break down and sob forever and, save that Tom seemed very happy to be back in Whistledown, she surely would have done.

At last, she confessed to her husband, who hugged her close and admitted that, being born and bred a _"townie"_, and, much as he still loved the country and had loved Whistledown when a boy, he found the small village far too slow and quiet now he was a man. But, he added, with a wry smile, he hadn't wanted to upset Peggy by telling her so. They laughed and cried together then, promising they would never again keep secrets from each other.

Neither wanted to live in a big city however and so, to compromise, they put a deposit down on a house in the busy little Yorkshire town of Ashtree and had then the best of both worlds, being close to the glorious Yorkshire countryside and close to a train station with a direct route to London. Visits between Jimmy and his family were frequent and even more so when, as was becoming fashionable among the working classes, Tom and Peggy bought a motor car. And, just to make their happiness complete, Peggy gave birth to a daughter, Susan Rose, the apple of her doting grandfather's eye.

And what of Follyfoot?Ah, Follyfoot Farm had not been forgotten! How could it ever be? In all who ever knew a dream, there is a stirring of the soul, a plucking of the heartstrings, that would lure the dreamer, with sighs and sweet memories, to an earlier place, a slower time. But in this world there are bonds that tie us, responsibilities, finance, everyday matters, always more pressing, trapping us in the frantic, hurried business of living.

Colonel Geoffrey Maddocks, though he longed to pursue his boyhood ambition of caring for animals (and sometimes his mind would wander while meeting with heads of state as he daydreamed another life at Follyfoot Farm where he did just that) was committed to his work in France, treading a fine line smoothing over diplomatic relations between France, America and Britain (General de Gaulle, though considered a war hero of the French resistance to Nazi occupation, was as disliked and distrusted by Winston Churchill as he had been by Roosevelt).

His batman Slugger Jones would also often find himself ruminating on the short, but very happy time he spent at Follyfoot and yearning to return.

One night, one strange, memorable night, when the exceptionally hot weather broke with a fierce thunderstorm, Slugger, unable to sleep in such oppressive heat, got out of bed, sat by the window, unscrewed the top off a bottle of warm beer with his teeth, and lit a cigarette. He had just told the silver-framed photograph of his wife Betty exactly how long it would be, in weeks, hours, minutes and seconds, to his next period of leave when a sudden lightning flash illuminated the neatly manicured gardens below and made him splutter on his beer.

For, under the saturated horse chestnut tree, in the brief second that night lit a flickering lamp in the sky, he thought he saw the long dead gypsy fortune teller Madame Zola.

But Slugger Jones was not given to flights of fancy, and so he only rubbed his eyes, saw no one when he looked again, concluded it had been a trick of the light and a lack of slumber, leaned back in his chair, took a leisurely swig of beer and concentrated on blowing smoke rings at the ceiling.

The storm had finally passed by, the lightning become faraway flashes, the thunder distant growls. It was barely five o'clock as Jimmy stood at the door of his London home, inhaling the fresh scent of rain on the early morning earth. Lord and Lady Maddocks slept late when they had no prior engagements and he had no need to be up from his own bed so early, but old habits died hard. Besides, he wanted to savour this moment. For almost a fortnight, much of Europe had sweltered under temperatures that soared to the high Nineties, even, on occasion, triple figures. The fresher air was a blessing and the thick mud a glorious sight. Had his little granddaughter been here, she would have immediately donned wellingtons to jump in puddles, tramp in mud and dig through the sodden soil with a twig to curiously study any insects that emerged.

He smiled as he thought of four-year-old Susie.

Like Peggy, the little girl loved animals and being outdoors, but, at the same age, Peggy had also loved to wear pretty dresses and to help Rose sew or bake. Susie had no time or patience for girlish pursuits. She had given the sales assistant a look of withering scorn last year in the toy department of a well known department store when the lady asked if she was hoping for a big doll from Father Christmas. Top of Susie's list (not counting the inevitable pony, that she begged for almost every day, Peggy and Tom, in addition to having already provided two dogs, a cat, rabbits, white mice, guinea pigs, tortoise and goldfish, thinking her as yet a little too young and reckless to ride on her own) had been a train set, cricket bat and football.

One day, when she was old enough to ride, he would take her riding in Whistledown, to feel the magic of Follyfoot and the freedom of the wind in her hair. He would tell her the stories of the people who worked there, of Beauty and Magic, of Sally the cat, of the long-necked swans that had glided majestically on the rippling lake. Storms always reminded him of the lightning tree and made him nostalgic for Follyfoot, but Arthur and Prudence were adamant they had no intention of ever returning.

And so, Follyfoot was left all alone with its memories. Except nobody knew it as Follyfoot Farm anymore. It had acquired a new name.

The Haunted Farm.


	31. Chapter 31

*****chapter 31*****

*****1950*****

Through the changing seasons, as the years came and went, children played about the deserted farm. Faces ruddy with cold, they would bring wooden sledges to slide down Whistledown Hill, or bombard each other with snowballs, or create whole snow families out of the thick, crunchy snow, the motionless figures shining eerie and silent when all alone by moonlight. Tanned by the country sun, they would bring picnics of home-baked bread and cheese, supplemented by summer fruits or autumn berries; when it rained they took shelter in the soft yellow hay of the stables; when the wind whistled furiously down from the moors, forcing the trees to bow to its might, their voices only carried louder in their games.

Sometimes they would peer curiously through the broken, grimy windows of the manor house, farmhouse and outbuildings, wondering at the abandonment of the once grand residence, with its locks, bolts, and shutters, with its vast grounds tall with tangled grass and weeds, with its lake stagnant and grey.

Now Yorkshire is an old land, steeped in the history and traditions of time, such tales, whether wise, wild or wonderful, being passed down from generation to generation. And so it came to be with Follyfoot.

In the years following the war, horse-riders began to report on how, as they rode by the deserted Farm, at a certain spot their horse would often prick up ears and come to a dead halt for several minutes before moving on. Some said it was nothing more than the high pitched whistling of the wind that spooked them; others said it was if they waited for something unseen to pass by. They spoke of the curious phenomenon in the villages, and children listened to adult conversations, as children will, and created their own tale.

It was the word Booty, carved into the lightning tree, coupled with the stories they'd heard and a fierce thunderstorm, that fired their imagination.

One hot day towards the end of August, four ten-year-old boys, and one seven-year-old sister, tagged on to an extremely reluctant older brother by an extremely stressed mother, under threat of bed by seven for a week (of course, nowadays, we would call it being "grounded" but in the more innocent days of 1950 an early bedtime was just that, with jam, bread and cocoa for supper, and no televisions or computers to alleviate the boredom) alighted from the infamous 22B bus. It was a service that delighted holidaymakers, who had all the time in the world to spare. and infuriated any locals who were in a hurry, with its twice-daily journey that meandered leisurely along scenic country lanes, and up hills and down dales, stopping at several villages, country inns, stately homes, castles, markets, railway halts, and almost anywhere else it could think of along the way.

At any rate, under the stern gaze of one of 22B's two regular conductors, Norman Butterworth, who unfairly believed _"every kid allus finks they can fool about on buses, they do"_ the group stepped down off the platform outside Tockwith Library, having decided to tramp through a field and take a short cut through Follyfoot Farm, which would chop some 45 minutes off their journey home.

They had been to the Saturday matinee at Ashtree Picture House, and their excited chatter was all about the film they'd just seen. It had been an abysmally bad time-travelling comedy about gangs of bungling crooks from past, present and future, who, to stay one step ahead of the law and each other, had to keep digging up and re-burying their ill-gotten gains, or booty, in more and more outlandish locations. But its young audience, not being too concerned about the improbable, had happily lapped it up.

Even seven-year-old Ellen had (eventually) been impressed. Knowing brother Michael was still on a good behaviour bond over skipping school and smoking, and claiming little sister rights, she yawned, grumbled and grizzled through all the action scenes until bribed into silence with sweets. However, she suddenly perked up when Melody, a dappled grey pony, began to appear in several shots, and fell in love with the idea of having a pony of her own. Now she was pretending to ride, skipping over twigs and brambles and "hushing" the imaginary Melody, who, she'd decided, was a very brave but nervy horse.

Crunching on some ripe apples they'd picked (except for Ellen, who was "feeding" the invisible Melody an apple) they were thrilled to suddenly espy the word _"Booty"_ and an accompanying arrow etched into Follyfoot Farm's lightning tree.

"Bank robbers have been here! They've been HERE!"

Paul, who was first to see the writing and draw it to the attention of his companions, almost danced, clenching and unclenching his fists with excitement.

"Or pirates!"

"Or the thieves from the future!"

"Or a Robber Gang from Whistledown!"

The fact it was highly unlikely any self-respecting bank robber, pirate, thief from the future, or even Robber Gang from Whistledown would take time out to leave clues for fellow members of their gang, as they had done in the movie, sailed blissfully over their heads. A game was a game and, like all pretend, there was always the heart-skipping half-belief it might be real. Assuming the "booty" was buried near the tree, the boys immediately busied themselves digging and poking the ground with hands, heels, sticks and stones, in short, anything at all they could find.

Ellen, who didn't have a clue what Booty meant as she'd paid scant attention to the plotline of the film, being far more interested in Melody, groaned loudly in protest but nobody took any notice. She'd pushed as far as she dared with annoying her brother, she was bored now, and wished they wouldn't waste time. And perhaps the gods heard and granted her wish because at that very moment the heavens chose to open, and a torrent of rain fell so fast it was as though buckets of water were being emptied out of a vast river in the sky. (_You know, I hesitate to think of Davey throwing buckets of water over the lightning tree, but sometimes I do have to wonder at these strange coincidences…_)

A sheet of lightning crackled and flashed. Almost immediately, a loud crash of thunder roared overhead like an angry lion woken from heavy slumbers.

From the shelter of the stables they'd run to, hair plastered against their faces, soaked to the skin in thin summer clothes, the five youngsters peeked out in breathless awe at the alien world Follyfoot had suddenly become, for never was the Farm more beautiful or more dramatic than when a thunderstorm painted land and sky. A curtain of rain rolled down from the distant misty moors, while all around alternately brightened then darkened, shaking trees, casting shadows, sending streams of water gushing along gutters and down rusty drainpipes.

"It's haunted," Michael whispered wickedly, noticing how warily Ellen was watching the wild flashes of lightning, and having had more than enough of her antics today. His little sister screamed and, satisfied, he continued. "By the ghosts of the robbers. Who kill people. That's what the horses see. That's why everyone who lived here ran away years and years ago. They had to or they'd be MURDERED!"

"That's why the storm came," Roy added, joining in. "The ghosts didn't want us taking their buried treasure."

He laughed when he said it. They all did, as they added to the story. Yet, oddly enough, they never did go back to search for riches. Nobody ever did.

The playgrounds at the village schools relayed to each other tales of the Haunted Farm, the stories embellished with each re-telling. And while nobody over the age of twelve or thirteen believed for a second that mayhem and murder had occurred at Follyfoot, the nickname somehow stuck with all. The stables and farm stayed empty. _The Haunted Farm_ would remain undisturbed for twenty years…


	32. Chapter 32

*****chapter 32*****

*****January 1955*****

"London is so splendid by evening!" Lady Prudence Maddocks trilled happily to Lord Arthur Maddocks, her diamond necklace and ear-rings flashing a myriad of colours through the neon-lit night, as she sank in a flurry of expensive perfume and evening dress into the comfortable leather seating of the Rolls

She was feeling extremely pleased with herself. Two days earlier, they had attended a dinner party hosted by Viscountess Charlotte Fitzcharles-Webb, a second cousin twice removed of the new young Queen Elizabeth, who had frequently met, and even spoken with, Her Majesty. This wintry evening, with its swirling snowflakes and icy breaths of wind, they were off to the theatre to meet with same. Titles and Royalty greatly impressed Prudence. Nobody was anybody unless they had a title or connection.

"I can't think why we EVER once chose to live in a backwoods little village like Whistledown. Nothing but disgusting animal odours and country yokels in such dreadful places!" she added, shuddering and wrinkling her nose as though the _"disgusting animal odours"_ were floating under it at that very moment, and either forgetting or ignoring the fact her chauffeur hailed from one such "dreadful place".

"Ah, we were young and foolish then, my dear," Arthur responded mildly, puffing contentedly on a long cigar. "Young and foolish."

Jimmy sighed inwardly as he walked around the car and in turn held the door open for Lord Maddocks, who, at least, acknowledged him with a brief thank you. Prudence had barely given him a second glance. Which was perhaps just as well because he couldn't help but grimace at the mink stole she wore over her shoulders. Had they stayed in Whistledown, he was sure, even Prudence's abhorrence of animals, particularly horses since the accident, could only have begun to diminish with the beautiful sights of fields full of new lambs and foals.

Unlike Prudence and Arthur, he privately thought Whistledown had almost been the making of them. Deep down, each owned a good heart that had however been stifled by a privileged upbringing. Like wayward children, under the quiet influence of the slow pace of village life, they were being moulded into better people. Now all the good work of Whistledown was coming undone as London appealed to their vanity and their snobbery over-rode everything else.

It could have been so very different.

As newlyweds in the 1930s, they had come to live in Whistledown on a whim. Arthur, second eldest brother, had inherited Follyfoot Farm on the death of his father, when eccentric eldest brother Geoffrey insisted he didn't want or need any fortune and so the fortune duly bypassed him. Sheer curiosity brought Arthur and his wife to view their newly-acquired property, but they had been unexpectedly smitten by the breathtaking beauty of Yorkshire and charmed by Follyfoot Farm with its unusual buildings of circular windows and spiral staircases. It would be _"great fun"_ and a _"super jape"_, they agreed, over a glass or two or six of vintage champagne from the bottles found in the manor house wine cellar, to mix with commoners for a short while.

They were not the first and they would not be the last to be so enchanted by the farm nestling at the bottom of Whistledown Hill. It had been built, or so it would appear to suggest by the Maddocks family crest and name above the manor house door, by Sir Richard Maddocks in 1668. The history books at Tockwith Library tell a different story.

Sir Richard, an eccentric Yorkshire bachelor who owned much of the county, fondly imagined himself to be an architect and engineer. After creating some puzzling structures (or "follies") on his estate, he moved to the villages where he hired men to build a dozen or more structures to his exact specifications. Ashtree, to its permanent embarrassment, still has two badly-built giant stone chairs in its town centre, while the infamous crooked Long Wall in Kettlefield only crumbled completely in the last century, and perhaps the least said about the tunnels that zig-zag randomly under the Yorkshire countryside the better. (To be fair, rumour has it, probably correctly, that these ventures were Sir Richard's misguided way of providing work for the poor.)

It's thought that the pleasant village of Follyfoot may have derived its name from the Norse meaning _"place of the horse fight"_, but, according to legend, locals spoke of_ "Sir Richard's new folly at the foot of Whistledown Hill"_, which became shortened to, at first, _"Richard's folly at the foot"_ and then simply _"Follyfoot"_, from which the village took its name. If legend is true, they were left with egg on their faces, for the manor house, farmhouse and outbuildings proved to be well-made gems of architecture. This was due to Sir Richard, perhaps feeling out of his depth, deciding to travel abroad and hand his most ambitious project over to architect William Drumgold. Drumgold, who would later construct some of Yorkshire's finest buildings, wisely ignored the original blueprints in favour of his own. What Sir Richard thought about this is not recorded, but it is known that he returned to England with a wife and a year later an heir to his fortune was born.

Follyfoot Farm was to change hands many times over the years although it remained the property of the Maddocks family. From the very first, it had been blessed with a magical quality, but quite how this quaint little piece of Yorkshire, where the wind whistled keenly down from the moors, and could, when it had a mind to, chill right through to the bones even on the brightest day, managed unseen to snatch, bottle and preserve that magic forever nobody ever knew.

Although other animals were kept, the farm's main trade was horses and, whether the blazing sun of summer scorched the earth or the hoar frost of winter coated the grass, from early morning till late at night, the stables were a hive of activity, filled with men's voices and the stomp of men's boots, with a neighing and snorting and clip-clop of hooves. The thriving business quickly gained a reputation for excellence that similar establishments could only dream of.

Rich gentlemen and ladies who might wish to hire or purchase a horse told servants tasked with the errand _"it must be the very best, it must be from Follyfoot"_ and it's claimed that once a handsome, swarthy gentleman, who bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain foreign crown prince, visited one day with his manservant who, when questioned about his master, answered only that he was a man of "noble birth" and refused to say more.

Back when it was all that many people could do to find enough to eat, it was often only the very wealthy who could, if they so desired, spare the time and money for animals to be given particular consideration. But the animals kept on Follyfoot Farm were very well looked after. Sick or elderly horses were not despatched to the knackers' yard, as was more common practice, but instead were allowed to live out their remaining days grazing peacefully. It was a tradition, I'm happy to say, that continued with each and every change of ownership, this compassion filtering down to even the lowliest member of staff. Caring, whether about people or animals, became a byword for Follyfoot and mothers told their children that if they grew to be as _"kindly as the Follyfoot Farm people"_ they would do them proud indeed.

Oh, I wish I could tell you it was always so. I wish so much I could tell you that nothing changed. But time has no compunction, progress no tears for the past. As the twentieth century dawned, horse-pulled carriages were being replaced by motor engines and more and more people travelled by car. And perhaps, even then, things may have continued as they were for just a little while longer, but then came the Great War. By the 1920s Follyfoot Farm had closed down.

For ten long years the buildings would remain silent and empty. That is, until a chance visit by the newlyweds and then the magic the villagers still spoke of in awe cast its net and weaved its spell all over again. Arthur and Prudence were arrogant and selfish when first they took up residence in the manor house. Yet within weeks they had begun to mellow, so much so that they justifiably earned their reputation as being generous employers, and caring was the word everyone used to describe Follyfoot again.

But, just when it seemed all that had been lost was re-gained, that symbol of hope, the tree that had flourished there for so long, was struck by lightning and another war tore the world asunder.

Pulling himself out of his reverie, Jimmy looked back to check the flow of traffic before veering left. The bright lights of London streaked in through the car windows, shining on the faces of Lord and Lady Maddocks, who were engaged in an animated discussion. Was it his imagination or did they look more smug, even "piggy", these days? Certainly, in the last few months, both, especially Prudence, had piled on the pounds.

Arthur, his face round and red, particles of snow clinging to his moustache, was haw-hawing loudly at something Prudence said as he unscrewed the top and took a sip of rum from the small silver flask he always carried with him in winter. Prudence, smirking at her smart remark, greedily crammed two chocolates into her mouth from the heart-shaped box on her lap. From the snippets of conversation Jimmy overheard, it was obvious they were mocking a neighbour.

Mrs Vera Funk, the neighbour concerned, was the widow of Peter Funk, who, from humble beginnings, had done so well in building up his recycling business that, upon his retirement and selling off the company, he was able to purchase a small property near to the Maddocks. Prudence however was distinctly unimpressed and was frequently heard to comment that this area of London was not for commoners (not, I must add, without a little racial prejudice too, for Mr Funk had been of German descent, although he and his wife had hated the Nazi regime with a passion). Victory V, as she was more commonly known, due to her habit of decorating her clothes and hats with dozens of home-made union jack badges, had, since her husband's death, begun stopping people and talking rambling nonsense. The poor woman was lonely and her mind gone with age and grief, but Prudence and Arthur regarded her affliction as simply a source of amusement, Jimmy thought sadly, yearning for those golden years at Follyfoot when his employers were more sympathetic people.

Drawing to a stop outside the theatre, and nodding at Vinny Oswald, the commissionaire, with whom he often shared a chat, he paid scant attention to the car phone ringing shrilly from behind and the murmur of Arthur's voice in answer. Not until he heard Lord Maddocks blaspheme furiously.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Prudence sounded frightened.

And, as if in a dream, Jimmy heard Arthur's reply, meant to be a whisper, but unintentionally loud with shock. Peggy, Tom and little Susie had been returning home from a panto only for the car to skid on ice…


	33. Chapter 33

*****chapter 33*****

*****London, Spring 1955*****

Jimmy was never the same man he had once been. He could never be.

Arthur and Prudence did as much as they could. Even though Jimmy tired much more easily, he still enjoyed driving and was still the excellent driver he had always been, and so, diplomatically, they suggested he concentrate on short journeys only and they would hire another driver to help out, giving him more time to concentrate on the gardening he loved so much. And so, with exceptionally careful scrutiny, they personally interviewed hundreds of hopefuls for the well-paid post of chauffeur, aware that the new man's ability to empathise was every bit as important as driving skills and references.

They needed, they explained to Jack Stanford, a cheerful young Cockney fellow with a heart as big as a house, and the successful applicant, someone who would understand that Jimmy was, and always would be, regarded as chief chauffeur even though it would be Jack who undertook the longest periods of driving and Jack who would, during important political occasions, receive telephone calls any time, day or night, requiring him to drive somewhere urgently.

Jimmy still lived rent free in the homely cottage in the grounds and the Maddocks still paid him his regular salary without any deductions to reflect his fewer hours driving although, in truth, he needed very little. At his suggestion, they tried, in vain, to find some family, a distant cousin, perhaps, or an aunt or uncle he never knew, Jimmy said hopefully; oh, it was just a silly fancy, nothing more than an old man's whim, he added poignantly, but it would please him know he wasn't all alone in the world. But every road they followed led nowhere. There was no one for Jimmy to call family but the Maddocks themselves. Their staunch friendship, and his strong Christian faith, were the buffers that kept him from breaking down completely.

Yet even they, for all their riches, for all the very best consultants, for all the very best medicines, could not stop the ravages of time. Barely turned sixty-one, Jimmy aged ten years in as many weeks. His shoulders hunched with the weight of the world, his face greyed with shadows of the past, his sharp blue eyes dimmed with sadness.

One March day, his hair turned snow white overnight, which so shocked Prudence when she saw him next morning that she clasped her hands to her mouth and sprang up from her chair, shaking her head and muttering, almost like an incantation, _"But it doesn't really happen! But it doesn't really happen!_" as though, if she said it often enough, his hair must surely return to its original brown peppered with flecks of grey and this, in turn, would reverse all that had happened so that the tragedy never was.

"Does he hear us, do you think?" she asked Arthur in a stage whisper, sitting down again with a thump, such was her sizeable frame nowadays. And, continuing to stare rudely, she slapped some cheese and thinly sliced tomato on a piece of toast, then proceeded to smear marmalade over it, there being no limit to Prudence's peculiar food preferences these last few months, and Mrs Geraghty, the breakfast cook, having provided the items requested.

Jimmy, who stood in the doorway, gave Prudence, who still gawked shamelessly even as she ate, a vague, unseeing glance, but made no attempt to enter the room. Her husband, with far greater sensitivity, folded the newspaper he'd been perusing and pocketed his reading glasses.

"Jimmy, good morning! Come, take your usual seat," He called jovially, hiding his own distress, and he walked over to place his hand lightly under the other man's elbow and guided him gently to the breakfast table.

Saturday breakfast with his employers had been Jimmy's privilege since the War years but, he being uneasy dining in the company of his "betters" unless specially invited, and Arthur and Prudence, being unable to quite shake off the shackles of snobbery, a formal invitation was verbally issued and politely accepted every Friday.

"Though I have to warn you, Margaret, old battleaxe that she is, is on the warpath again, insisting we follow my wife's example and drink more cranberry juice," Arthur added. "Well, I, for one, can't drink gallons of it like Prudence does and I feel so rebellious at her badgering that I declare I shan't EVER touch a drop again! What's more, I'll pour the whole damned jug down the sink in grand ceremony before I'm done! Are you game, old chap?" He winked conspiratorially and was rewarded with a small smile.

Lord and Lady Maddocks were actually quite fond of Margaret Geraghty, and Arthur had no intention of carrying out his threat. But, at a loss how to be with his friend at such times when he seemed to retreat within himself, he would often take refuge in humour. Jimmy, for his part, tried to reassure Arthur and Prudence that it was simply no more than that he would slip into some happy moment from the past and, the memory being so pleasant, _"spend longer there than he meant to."_ The doctors agreed. The result of extensive tests, they declared to the worried Maddocks, was that they could safely say his mind was as sound as it had ever been.

Reluctantly, he shook himself out of his reverie, and, sitting down as bidden, calmly buttered some toast and joked to his dining companions that he might grow a beard to match his hair and double for Santa this Christmas.

Prudence exchanged a puzzled glance with her husband, absently rubbing her nose, which had been so badly disfigured in the riding accident. She was still extremely sensitive about the deformity and, even now, many years later, could not bear to look in a mirror or see a photograph of herself without feeling an overwhelming surge of anger towards Magic. Nor had time dimmed her hatred of horses; if anything, it made it stronger. A more nasal tone, that grated on her own nerves, had crept into her voice as she aged, which further added to her resentment. Why, she sounded like the common working class, she had sobbed heartbrokenly on Arthur's shoulder, and could scarcely be consoled.

Jimmy, however, was made of sterner stuff. He had gasped in disbelief when he first saw his own reflection that morning, but, with the same resilience that he'd had to find at a poverty-stricken, half-starved very young age, he quickly reached the conclusion _"what can't be cured must be endured"_ and if God wanted him to have white hair, then white hair he would have, and there was an end to it. And while, momentarily, the sight had upset him, for even the least vain among us must dread the onset of old age, he was far more concerned about his employers' feelings than his own. Lord and Lady Maddocks, he reasoned, born into golden lifestyles as they were, had never had to face adversity and so must always be shielded from it. Touchingly, he was as anxious to protect his vastly wealthy employers as they were to protect their humble chauffeur.

Baffled by his stoicism, convinced nobody could simply accept what, had it happened to herself, would have been a major tragedy, and, despite what the doctors claimed, his mind must surely be gone, Prudence heaved herself up from her chair and waddled over.

"There, there, there," she soothed, patting Jimmy's hand as if he were a simpleton. "There, there, there."

Arthur winced at the patronizing tone, but even he wiped the corner of his eye with his knuckle, blew his nose noisily and muttered huskily about _"this confounded cold."_It was so sad to see Jimmy come to this, he thought sadly, recalling the bitterly cold January day and the snowflakes whirling furiously around Follyfoot Farm, when a proud man in thin, ragged clothes had come to beg for work. About to set off for a brisk winter's ride, they could so easily have passed him by but for a chance remark. Thank whatever gods there were that they hadn't. Despite the tragedies that had blighted his own life, he had been their rock, their mainstay, a quiet influence on all their staff, a trusted friend, who had even helped the British government during the War by ensuring top secret files and documents were safely delivered. Arthur didn't think Jimmy would ever be so capable again.

But Jimmy was still sharp as a tack, as they were very soon to discover, and they would rely on him once more, when their whole world changed, when London was covered in a blanket of white, when the rain turned to ice and the snow fell…


	34. Chapter 34

*****chapter 34*** **

*****London, 17 May 1955*** **

They referred to him as The Old Man at Hepplethwaite Riding Stables. Not without reverence. There was a quiet, grandfatherly air about the man with the thatch of snow white hair, something deep within his blue eyes that inspired trust. The Old Man first visited one sunny but bitterly cold day, when frost sparkled on the grass like diamonds, and droplets of sleet dripped slowly down through the trees, as if they were comparing the heavy snowfalls of the previous month with the sunshine of today and mulling over the vagaries of winter. He came often afterwards though he spoke little about himself.

My father told me when I was very small and timid of a big dog that those who learn to love animals learn to be at one with every living creature. At such a tender age I barely understood, and yet I sensed something magical happen as I clung to my father's reassuring hand and tentatively patted the elderly Labrador, who immediately returned the greeting with a large, friendly lick.

Those who worked at Hepplethwaite's never questioned The Old Man. It made them smile to see how, from the very first, tails swishing, ears pinned back, their charges whinnied with joy whenever they saw him as though they had known him forever. The horses liked him and that was testimony enough.

XXXXX

One afternoon on his way back from the stables, Jimmy was surprised by young Jack Stanford coming to meet him on the narrow road. Motorways were still a handful of few years in the future and roads in the capital then were not as thick with traffic as they are today so only one or two cars passed leisurely by the grass verge that pedestrians could, and often did, stroll along. He had only had to walk a few miles to reach Hepplethwaite's, for even in a congested city like London, smoke and fumes could quickly be left far behind and give way to vast expanses of greenery.

"Wotcher, Jim!" Jack drew the Rolls to a smooth halt and pulled down the car window to yell through it.

He knew of his colleague's love of animals and of his visits to the nearby riding stables. Jimmy had taken him into his confidence some time ago, explaining how Prudence's hatred of horses had come about, and how greatly he missed the old days of Follyfoot Farm. Jimmy had asked the Maddocks whether he could keep a dog or a cat in the cottage, but, while Arthur may have eventually been swayed, Prudence fell into a near swoon at the request, although she later conceded a parrot or budgie might just about be acceptable. But Jimmy believed no bird should ever be caged and so the cottage remained occupied only by himself.

"'Op in, quick!" Jack invited urgently, throwing the car door wide open. "I've been sent specially to fetch yer. There's a right bleedin' two 'n' eight at the 'Ouse and they need yer there at once!"

"Is it Lord or Lady Maddocks who's ill? How bad is it? Can anything be done?" Jimmy sat down, small flakes of snow flying inside with him, and falling off his clothes and boots. His mind raced with scenarios, from Arthur or Prudence, or both, being at death's door, to the house burning down, to the Maddocks losing all of their vast fortune on stocks and shares and being left penniless. "For pity's sake, Jack, drive as fast as the law will allow. They've been very good to me and I'll do whatever I can to help." And he looked askance at his companion, wondering why they had not sped off immediately.

"Steady on, mate," Jack said calmly. "I'm not at liberty to say what's goin' on seein' as 'ow the gaffer wants to tell yer 'imself. But I can promise yer, it ain't bad news."

Jimmy heaved a huge sigh of relief and sank back in the car seat. "Thanks be to God! But what_ has_ happened?"

A broad grin spread across Jack's genial face and his eyes flashed with sudden mischief. "Can't tell yer more than that, me ole china, but what I _can_ tell yer is, it _ain't_ a puppy or kitten or even a flamin' foal, that's for bloody sure!" He winked, tapped the side of his nose and revved up the engine,

Jimmy, having no choice but to contain his curiosity, sat in baffled silence, watching the snowflakes flutter lightly down from the sky and sinking into a carpet of thick white snow, for the whole of London had been covered that morning by the unseasonable weather in the middle of May. He had been woken last night by a commotion outside and had glanced out of the cottage window just in time to catch a very fleeting glimpse of Jack driving the Maddocks off somewhere. Assuming it was some political event, he had very quickly gone back to sleep. Tuesday was now his official day off and after a leisurely breakfast and tending to the flowers and vegetables he grew in his own little garden, he had gone for a brisk walk to Hepplethwaite's and not called at the House at all that day. Perhaps, he guessed, trying to make sense of Jack's mysterious speech, Arthur had finally persuaded his wife to keep horses again. Not a foal, Jack had hinted, so perhaps…

But the sudden wailing, screaming and sobbing that assailed their ears as they approached the Maddocks residence sent shivers of alarm down his spine.

"Oy!" Jack said, clapping a hand on the older man's shoulder as Jimmy made to jump swiftly out of his seat. "Good news! Remember?"

Jimmy nodded, his heart in his mouth, and hurried on to the living quarters. Calling out a loud but uncertain _"Mr Maddocks, sir?"_ he rapped on the door to the parlour and Arthur opened it so swiftly he must surely have been standing directly behind.

The sight that met Jimmy's eyes was so surreal that for a moment he wondered if he'd been transported into some parallel universe, as often happened in the sci-fi paperbacks that Jack had lately introduced him to.

"But I _don't know_ what to do with her!" Prudence stood in the middle of the room, holding at arm's length, although she had, at least, the sense to clasp the child's head, a tiny, wrinkled, red-faced, screaming baby, who was clad in a pretty lilac bodysuit and struggling desperately to break free.

"In Heaven's name, Prudence, surely a mother…a mother's instincts and all that…" Arthur, keeping a safe distance from this pocket-sized, unpredictable human being, mopped the beads of sweat on his forehead with a large cotton handkerchief, looked imploringly at Jimmy, and downed another large gulp of whiskey…


	35. Chapter 35

*****chapter 35*****

*****A New Arrival*****

Prudence gave a squeal of horror as the bawling infant suddenly kicked so fiercely that she almost slipped from her grasp and could so easily have joined the baby shawl that already lay crumpled on the carpet. The alarming possibility of an accident snapped Jimmy out of his daze. Wondering afterwards wherever he found it in him to be so bold, he strode purposefully to the centre of the room and held out his arms.

"Give her to me, please, ma'am," he demanded firmly.

Only too willing to hand over the responsibility, Prudence deposited the child without hesitation, sighing a sigh of pure relief as she poured herself a glass of wine from the bottle set in the ice bucket. (Presumably the couple had intended to wet the baby's head in low-key fashion, but it seemed the cause of the celebration had other ideas about the celebrations, low-key or otherwise.)

The tiny bundle nestled safely in the crook of his arm, Jimmy stooped to retrieve the shawl, wrapped it around her and sank into an armchair near the hearth, the first time he'd ever made himself at home in the Maddocks parlour without being invited to sit down. But so many things were different today. The small tears that streamed down the baby's face and her frantic wails tore his heart asunder. Even the normal deference he kept towards Lord and Lady Maddocks as their _"being of a higher class"_ flew from his mind. The poor, poor little mite! Whoever she was, whoever she belonged to, however the Maddocks had come by her, what a cruel, cruel welcome into the world!

"Shhh, shhh," he hushed, emotion swelling up inside him, as he remembered rocking his own children, Peggy and Johnjo, to sleep, and, much later, his grandaughter Susie. All gone now. All. Nothing left to say they ever were, but faded photographs and dusty memories."Shhh," he soothed again, and then, in a gentle voice barely more than a whisper: "It's alright. It's alright. We have each other." Why he said this, he did not know.

The child was calming now, warm and secure, her cries becoming exhausted whimpers. Firelight shadows flickered on the walls and through the large French windows, although it was mid-May and they had no business being there in the pale yellow sunshine of spring, feathery snowflakes, almost silver in the sunlight, danced and swirled. It reminded him of a game Susie invented one winter's evening, when Peggy and his son-in-law Tom had been invited to a "do" at friends' house nearby and had asked Jimmy to babysit.

His little granddaughter was finally drifting asleep. He closed the fairytale book he'd been reading to her, clicked off the light and made to draw the curtains when, in that breathless night, the snow began to fall quietly, timidly at first, and then, as though making up its mind, tumbling down in a flurry of white, quickly blanketing the roofs and chimneys of the little Yorkshire town of Ashtree and the distant fields beyond. The sight was so beautiful that that he stood there for a while watching, glad he had no need to venture outdoors. The Maddocks had hired a temporary chauffeur for the weekend and a bed had been made up for Jimmy in the cosy spare room. He was looking forward to later snuggling under the covers with a cuppa and listening to the supposedly-true spooky tales on the wireless.

"Granddad! GRANDAD, it's SNOWWW-INGGG!" Susie announced. "Can I build a snowman?"

He was quite sure he hadn't made a sound, but some noise must have disturbed the little girl, for she was wide awake.

"Tomorrow. Bairns can't be playing out at this hour. Come on, pet, settle down." Jimmy tucked the blankets around her again, wondering how on earth he was going to persuade her to sleep now. But Susie unintentionally put herself to sleep.

"It's like floating," she said excitedly, as he sat down with her, realising too late that he hadn't fully closed the curtains so the lamplight still shone through and gave a theatre-like quality to the winter show. She sat up in bed, clutching her grandfather's arm and rested her head against him, aware he was putty in her hands. "Grandad, let's play we're going up in the sky, let's play we can float higher and higher and higher and higher…"

And, as they gazed together, till Susie's eyes closed in sleep, at the silently hypnotic flakes fluttering down, just as they did now through the French windows of the Maddocks firelit parlour, it really did seem as if another world far away, where dreams were spun on golden threads, would carry them home…


	36. Chapter 36

*********chapter 36*****

*****Family Matters*****

"Apologies, my good chap," Arthur's voice sliced into Jimmy's tender memories of yesteryear. "We wanted you, being such a dear friend to us, to be the very first to know. Unfortunately, in your absence, it was necessary to take a few others into our confidence - Margaret Geraghty, and our regular contacts at Harrods, and of course Jack drove us to the hospital when Prudence was so suddenly taken ill…"

"Such a shock," Prudence interjected. "Such a terrible, terrible shock. To think, only this time yesterday I little dreamed…" She shook her head and Arthur squeezed her hand reassuringly.

They sat together on the sofa, Prudence, unusually pale, sniffing delicately and dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief, and Arthur drinking his whiskey with unusually pensive demeanour.

"My wife refused to stay in hospital," he added, as though everything made perfect sense. "Press and everything, you know. There are only a handful of people who know of this…this dreadful state of affairs."

"But…but who does the child belong to?" Jimmy queried, bewildered.

"To whom does she belong?" Arthur corrected pedantically. "Why, Prudence and me, of course. Quite a shock, old sport, quite a bally awful shock to discover you're going to be parents only five hours before a birth!"

Jimmy, wondering once more if he really had stumbled into a different realm, jumped at the startling revelation, and the baby, asleep now that she felt more secure, whimpered briefly at the jolt. Bit by bit, the broken pieces of the jigsaw locked together.

Prudence had been seized with agonizing stomach pains the previous night, Arthur continued, as he poured Jimmy a glass of whiskey. Not wishing to attract the attention of reporters if an ambulance were to be seen arriving at, or departing from, the grand residence of Lord and Lady Maddocks, they had instead telephoned Jack to drive them to an exclusive private hospital just a few miles away. It was here that an obstetrician told the astonished couple the incredible news: Prudence was not only pregnant but _in labour!_ And, five hours later, in the early hours of the following morning, as the snow fell quietly over London, a healthy baby girl, weighing 61b 4oz, was born.

The doctors wanted to keep Prudence and her daughter in hospital for at least another week, Lady Maddocks being not only a first-time mother but a mature and menopausal one at that. But Prudence had no intention of staying in hospital for another day, let alone another week, and the Maddocks' huge wealth and high political importance meant they had never done anything they didn't wish to. It was arranged for the parents to take their newborn home and for Prudence to receive daily visits from the midwife, who, like all the medical staff involved, had been sworn to secrecy about the birth until such time as Lord and Lady Maddocks chose to make a statement to the press. Should the news be leaked beforehand, they warned the small pool of people in the know, then they would immediately lose their lucrative posts.

"And what are…what are your plans for the future, sir, ma'am?" Jimmy asked, feeling he sounded like a prospective father-in-law.

He knew that Prudence and Arthur disliked children and he wondered, but fervently hoped not, he already felt mightily attached to the poor, unloved little mite, if they would put their daughter up for adoption or perhaps have her brought up by one of Arthur's married brothers (Prudence being an only child) and pass her off as a niece.

"Well, Margaret's already fed and changed her twice," Prudence replied, misunderstanding, and not seeing as far into the future as Jimmy was. "To think, they actually expected ME to learn how to change nappies at the hospital!" (she shuddered at the memory.) "It was so fortunate Margaret was on hand when we came home although, goodness knows, she never expected to be preparing bottle feeds instead of breakfast! We haven't hired a nurse for the child yet and dear Margaret, being a grandmother of three and quite used to the things, has agreed to take on that role until we have time to explore the avenue further. And we've ordered the nursery furniture, which is being assembled even as we speak, the gentlemen from Harrods having assured us of total discretion. As you can see, Jimmy, we are quite the doting mother and father!"

She and Arthur exchanged smiles and clinked glasses, inordinately proud of themselves, blissfully unaware that they had yet to show an inkling of affection towards their daughter, let alone dote on her...


	37. Chapter 37

*****chapter 37****

******Plans*****

"And you intend to…um…bring her up yourselves?" Jimmy tactfully rephrased the question.

Arthur looked shocked. "But of course, my dear fellow! Can you imagine the scandal if we didn't? The damage it would do to our political reputations?"

Jimmy swallowed the lump that rose in his throat. It was the answer, but not the reason, he wanted to hear.

"We shall, over the next day or so, through our press secretary Finlay Patterson, grant an exclusive interview with the BBC and arrange for official photo shoots. We certainly need to have the child better dressed for the occasion." Arthur frowned, recollecting the hasty purchase of baby clothes that had led to them accumulating, among other things, the lilac sleep suit.

The infant began to stir and whimper anew and Prudence, hitherto relaxing with another glass of chilled white wine, stiffened in alarm.

"Oh! Oh! Is it waking up? Don't pass it back, please, I couldn't possibly bear any more of that dreadful kicking!" She waved a hand as though to fend her off.

And perhaps it was hormonal, Prudence being so new a mother, but she fell into her husband's arms and sobbed like a child herself.

"Could you sort it please, Jimmy, there's a good fellow?" Arthur asked, patting his wife's back. "Is the creature being sick? I believe that's quite common with babies, as well as their constantly wetting or soiling nappies, and then there's being too hot or too cold."

"Nowt to fret about, sir. She's grand. Probably just hungry." Jimmy smiled at Lord Maddocks' assumption he knew all about fatherhood after being a father for less than twenty-four hours. "Have you a name for the bairn yet? Only I was wondering…" Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He took the bull by the horns and plunged headlong into a subject dear to his heart. "I know she'll have several names, important people always do, but if you could maybe see your way to including Dora as one? Rose and me, we'd planned to have another babby, though it never was to be, and if it was a girl we said we'd call her Dora. It means gift and I thought the bairn being a gift from God and all…"

He paused, hoping he hadn't spoken out of turn and overstepped the mark. The Maddocks might regard him as a good friend nowadays, but they were still his employers.

"But, Heavens, Dora is PERFECT as a FIRST name!" Prudence, now that it was established she needn't take the baby back, seemed to recover rapidly from her recent trauma. Her cheeks were pink from alcohol, and, having quickly drained her second glass of wine, she downed a third and enthusiastically began on the fourth that Arthur had just poured. "Dora was my grandmother's name and the name of Arthur's mother too. It's long been a traditional name in both our families."

"The name Dora has a long, illustrious history," Arthur agreed.

"Quite. A long, ill-lush-ill-lush, ill-lush…" Prudence giggled, unable to finish the sentence. "Arthur, I do…hic…declare, this unassuming wine has…hic…gone to my head."

"Vintage wine, my love, vintage. Only the very best is good enough for my darling wife. We are, after all, the proud parents." The several glasses of whiskey he had enjoyed since they brought their child home took its toll on Arthur now, for he slurred his words and, like Prudence, seemed incapable of sitting upright.

As a new bottle of wine was being uncorked and the top of a new bottle of whiskey unscrewed, they readily agreed to Jimmy's suggestion that he take Dora to Mrs Geraghty for a feed. And, animated by drink, freed from their responsibilities, the proud parents fell into discussion (which, to judge by their frequent gales of laughter, must have been highly amusing) about the unseasonal snow, the clock on the mantelshelf, the prime minister, the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, what colour Prudence should have for a new coat, of "ships and shoes and sealing wax", of everything except their baby daughter…


	38. Chapter 38

*****Chapter 38*****

*****1960*****

They were inseparable, The Old Man and the little girl. Old Jim, they called him now. The stable folk had long ago learnt that his name was Jimmy but they always called him Jim. It seemed to give a dignity somehow to one so much older than they, for the staff at Hepplethwaite's Riding Stables were generally very young.

His constant companion nowadays, Dora, a little girl with hazel eyes full of dreams, and brown hair like autumn, glinting as it did with red, gold and chestnut when caught by sunlight, was a natural with the horses although she was never allowed to ride. It was _"her parents' strictest instructions in case she ever hurt herself"_, Old Jim explained sadly, and when it seemed, as if often did, that Dora was about to throw a tantrum because of her _"parents' strictest instructions"_ Old Jim only had to quell her with a look.

"They only want what's best for you, Daz," he reminded her. "And remember the Ten Commandments, The Lord tells us Honour thy Father and thy Mother."

And Daz, as he nicknamed her, would gracefully swallow her disappointment, not because she thought her parents knew best, nor even because she thought The Lord knew best, oh, no, but simply because she adored Old Jim and thought _he_ knew best. Dora was a funny little soul. Like many other small girls, she dreamed of being a princess but, unlike other small girls, her dream was not to meet a handsome rich prince and live happily ever after.

"When I grow up, I'm going to marry a very poor prince and we'll keep lots of horses in the very poor palace," she confided gravely one day to Paul, one of the stable hands, to his great amusement though, to his credit, he managed to keep a straight face.

At Hepplethwaite's, nobody knew quite what to make of the pretty little miss with the cut-glass accent and refined manners, who could whisper to the horses and have them understand, who wore the most expensive outfits, yet wished enviously that she could _"wear hand-me-downs and be like Lucy"_ (twelve-year-old Lucy came from a large, desperately poor family and earned her weekly riding lessons by mucking out and running regular errands) and who, despite her obvious wealth, at only five years old, already abhorred the trappings of wealth. Old Jim, with his Yorkshire brogue, weatherbeaten face and rough hands, was from working class stock like themselves, but Dora remained an enigma.

And so, as people will when the full facts are unknown, they created their own story, and, as people do, came to believe it to be the true version of events.

Because she called him by his first name, they decided Old Jim, who had once mentioned being a widower, must have married someone who already had a grown-up family and the youngster must be the granddaughter, perhaps even great-granddaughter, of his late wife. One of the step-children or their offspring had done very well for themselves too, they further embellished their imaginative tale, and wanted Dora to have the very best of education and opportunities that poverty had denied them. Dora must have been a great disappointment to her nouveau rich parents, however, for her aspirations were alarmingly low. When asked the age-old question what she wanted to be or do when she grew up, besides being a very poor princess, she inevitably answered cleaner or housekeeper or maid or simply to _"drive a car"_.

Yorkshire colloquialisms and London slang words, sounding so out of place among her carefully enunciated vowels, slipped easily into her childish chatter although, whenever they did, she would clap her hand over her mouth in sudden realisation and exclaim, eyes dancing with delighted mischief, _"Mummy and Daddy say I must NEVER talk so - oh, but it's so much more fun!"_ Then she would smile a huge smile at Old Jim, a smile that grew broader and broader and spilled over into giggles the more he shook his head in stern disapproval until, in the end, he couldn't help but smile himself.

But at other times her laughter would give way instead to a heartfelt sigh and she would catch hold of his hand and say wistfully, _"But, Jimmy, it feels REAL to talk this way. I wish I always could."_

Jimmy never went riding again, not in all the time he regularly called to Hepplethwaite's. At first, it had been because it seemed disloyal to Beauty's memory but, a little later, and just when he was considering whether or not he should, he returned home one day to be greeted by the surreal sight of an extremely anxious Prudence and Arthur, the pair almost running down the driveway towards him, Arthur holding on to his hat, and Prudence trying to give the appearance that she was in no hurry whatsoever and just happened to be waddling at an unusually fast pace.

It had been back in the very early days of his visits, some four or five years before, when out on a brisk walk, his solitary footsteps crunched into the pure white snow had led him to a glorious winter scene. A beautiful bay horse, cosily clad in warm, striped hand-woven blanket, stared curiously out at him for a moment from the comfort of its stable, the blue-grey fog of its breath rising on the icy air, and then whinnied a cheerful greeting to the stranger…


	39. Chapter 39

*****chapter 39*** **

*****Companions*****

Jimmy would never forget that first magical glimpse of Hepplethwaite's. The sadness that had weighed him down ever since the tragedy fell away like the shedding of a heavy cloak. He had always loved animals, but the Maddocks were adamant none would ever be kept on their vast London estate. Prudence, who had never been particularly fond of them to begin with, still unfairly blamed Magic for the accident that disfigured her nose and, illogically, held every dumb creature, horse or otherwise, personally responsible for everything wrong with the world.

Being swept up in the demands of his job as chauffeur, ferrying his employers to and fro all hours day and night, Jimmy had given little thought to how greatly he missed Whistledown and Follyfoot. It was only since Jack Stanford had been hired as assistant chauffeur that he had had time again to resume his enjoyment of long country walks.

London wasn't, and never could be, where his heart truly lay, with the quiet villages that dotted the old brown earth and green rolling hills of Yorkshire, but even here gems of nature could still be found. In the 1950s its long Roman roads, along which soldiers had marched and chariot wheels trundled, were not enough for the growing number of cars and more and more transport links were being built. A great many years ago, unsullied by exhaust fumes and belching smoke of factories, perhaps here had been some medieval farm where a chattering stream sparkled in the sun, or there some iron age settlement where offerings were made to gods and horses roamed wild and free. But the land was often nothing more now than a tangled mass of trees and stagnant waters.

Yet it had been on one such walk that Jimmy had happily stumbled on Hepplethwaite's several miles away. And, as always, from passing the time of day at the riding stables, making small talk with staff and riders, although, mindful of the Maddocks' high political importance and fabulous wealth, he never revealed much about himself, he returned home, lighter of heart.

Lord and Lady Maddocks however had been frantic. Arthur had happened to tap on the cottage door to present Jimmy with a rare plant that had been given him by a visiting diplomat, and, receiving no answer, began asking if anyone knew where he was. When he discovered nobody had seen him since he left early that morning in swirling snow, he and Prudence were convinced he'd slipped and broken his leg or stepped unwittingly on a glacial pond and fallen through or frozen to death in the middle of nowhere (the scenarios worsened with each passing minute) and they were just about to phone the police when young Jack Stanford returned, whistling happily.

Jack, who was the only one Jimmy had told about Hepplethwaite's, had been enjoying the rare treat of being "on call" but not required urgently and had spent a pleasant day with his girlfriend, rekindling the embers of what had seemed to be a dying romance. Fresh from his lover's arms, blissfully unaware of the lipstick smudge on his neck and congratulating himself on always keeping a packet of condoms handy in his pocket in case he _"got lucky"_, he smiled broadly and smoothed back his hair, a man of the world. Jimmy would be back in no time, Jack predicted confidently, adding that his friend had been loath to tell Lord and Lady Maddocks about his visits for fear of upsetting them as he knew they both disliked horses.

Almost as if he'd just read an instruction to _"enter stage left"_ Jimmy did indeed come through the gates at that very moment, warm winter scarf half masking his face, coat flying in the wind, flat cap pulled down low over his forehead, his boots leaving a trail of ridged footprints pressed into the icy blanket of white. Deep in thought, watching out for slippy patches, he was astonished when Lord and Lady Maddocks hurried towards him as fast as the treacherous snow underfoot would allow. Thanking Jack for his help and informing him he may take tomorrow off too, the predicted blizzard conditions making it too dangerous to drive, they linked Jimmy at either side. Arthur brushed away from his eye a hasty tear or two that had nothing to do with the bitter weather (although he would have you believe otherwise) and Prudence was, to Jimmy's bafflement, talking rapidly about an alarmingly long list of possible winter accidents. There and then, albeit with the very best of intentions, they made their friend promise that if he _must_ go and see horses (Prudence shuddered at the very notion) he would at least never ride them.

"I couldn't bear it if a similar misfortune were to befall you," she declared, rubbing her much hated nose and sounding as though she had a very bad cold, her thickening nasal tones another legacy of the day Magic threw her whilst trying to avoid the swerving car and drunken pedestrian.

"Or worse," Arthur remarked.

Prudence squealed dramatically. "Darling! Don't! We should be thankful the brutes didn't have a chance to harm him. Jimmy, we must retire to the drawing room and toast your safe return."

It was in vain that Jimmy tried to explain the "brutes" were actually gentle giants who would give much love if only they were allowed to. It always was. Whenever he left for Hepplethwaite's, they urged him to _"take great care"_ and fretted until his safe return.

Of course, as soon as she could walk and talk, Dora wanted to go with him but this was hardly surprising. Prudence and Arthur gave their only child everything money could buy, but as love and attention cost nothing they were at a loss to know which store they could purchase these priceless items from and, stocks being in very short supply, the little girl latched on to the one person who gave her both in abundance.

It was quite usual to see Dora, chatting excitedly as she clutched Jimmy's hand, on the way to his cottage where she had her own plot in the garden; or "helping" Ada bake, standing on a stool and covered in flour up to her elbows, while Jimmy, enjoying a cuppa and catching up on kitchen gossip, ensured she didn't topple the mixing bowl; or, strapped in her car seat, wearing her own pretend chauffeur hat and pretend chauffeur badge that Jimmy had made (and which she would have worn to bed if she only could) as they set off to fill up with petrol or to light a candle at his church.

The household had changed a good deal since Dora's arrival. Prudence's great friend Daphne, having time to kill as she waited for a large divorce settlement from her ex-husband, the Duke of Hunterwood**, had been hired as Nurse, and, as wealth and titles impressed Lord and Lady Maddocks more than experience and qualifications, this arrangement suited everyone except Dora. The Duchess, who found small children somewhat irritating, almost daily handed her charge over to Jimmy the moment she was washed, dressed and breakfasted (usually by one of the other house staff) and then went off to shop, wine or dine or to discuss complicated divorce matters with her lawyers. The various snobbish tutors employed to educate the privileged child were scandalized that said privileged child _"hobnobbed with the under classes"_. But Lord and Lady Maddocks (and Daphne) were only too delighted to hand over responsibility and Jimmy and Dora were quite happy with the status quo.

Arthur and Prudence were at first extremely reluctant to allow their daughter to visit a riding stables, but they had told Jimmy they would consider the request.

"She _is_ very fond of horses." Arthur, sitting up in bed, lay down his book and sighed. Affairs of the state were much easier to attend to than children. "And Jimmy thinks it would be good for her to spend some time with animals."

"Dora is given an expensive new toy every week yet one would think the child never owned any! Those dreadful chipped wooden horses go with her everywhere." Prudence, sitting at the dressing table, applying face cream and frowning at her nose, had, like her husband, either forgotten or was genuinely unaware that the figures were Beauty and Magic, and carved by Davey. _(I like to think that, had they known, a later incident in this story would never have occurred.)_

At last, they reached a compromise. Dora was permitted to go to Hepplethwaite's every Tuesday provided she NEVER rode a horse for fear of accidents and that nobody ever learnt her true identity or connections.

Still, the Maddocks need not have worried about ransom demands or political dishonour or whatever it was that troubled them. There was very little curiosity about Dora and Old Jim at Hepplethwaite's. The young people who worked there, being young, were far more interested in dating, dancing, music and fashion than exactly who their visitors were. They simply accepted Old Jim and Dora. Perhaps, as my father told me long ago, those who share a love of animals always do.

Oh, but then another thought strikes me! Hepplethwaite's HAD come to be in a very strange manner. A very strange manner indeed and I wonder if...No. I've done enough talking for now. I shall tell you all about it in the next chapter.


	40. Chapter 40

*****chapter 40*****

*****Hepplethwaite's*****

"Horses. A riding stables."

Aged twenty-eight Gwendolyn Hepplethwaite, heiress to the famous (and some say cursed) Hepplethwaite fortune, had been considered a dramatic beauty, slim and pale, with raven hair, dark, soulful eyes and an appealing, almost ethereal, vulnerability. Aged eighty-eight, bony, wrinkled and ravaged by time, white-haired and wild-eyed, she dictated plans to her solicitor in the same way she chose to communicate with everyone nowadays: through a microphone, attached to unbreakable glass, in one bare room of her luxurious mansion.

Because of the need to eradicate germs, and as per her instructions, each and every room of said luxurious mansion was daily swept, scrubbed and disinfected until it shone as blindingly as the core of the sun. And because people will often dance to the tune of money, if enough of it is paid, even though the well-being of the giver would be far better served other than pampering unquestioningly to their every whim.

And so, as she wished to, and not because she should, Gwendolyn lived all alone in her self-imposed prison, just as she had done for a decade or more, when her deteriorating mental health finally crumbled.

Now Miss Hepplethwaite had been shocked to read about teddy boys in the national newspapers and was heard to mutter as she agitatedly paced the bare floorboards (Gwendolyn believed carpets and rugs to be riddled with insects) "Whatever will become of the world?"

That she was even remotely concerned for the world came as a great surprise to everyone as, in addition to human beings, televisions (_radiation_) wirelesses (_gamma rays_) and telephones (_bacteria_) were all banned from her imperious presence.

Newspapers however had always been the exception. Every morning, at 9 o'clock precisely, and ironed neatly, they were delivered through a small hatch by a white-gloved butler. At 9.03 am precisely Miss Hepplethwaite would sit on a bubble-wrapped chair (_germs_) wearing a surgical mask (_polluted air_) and disposable gloves (_possibility of human contact_) and peruse current affairs. National Service, read she anxiously, was not enough to tame wild youth that was apparently running amok in 1950s Britain.

It seemed working class people in their teens and twenties had more free time and more money than any previous generation. And what did they do with their new-found freedom and wealth? Did they, like the pious Gwendolyn, build churches and temples and pump cash into various religions? (_Gwendolyn thought it wise to hedge her bets and contributed to all major ones no matter which god(s) they worshipped or laws they abided by thus, she reasoned, securing eternal happiness should there prove to be an afterlife._) Oh, dear, no! They had instead set about creating their own music and fashion, and, according to the more sensational of the broadsheets, these terrible delinquents had even added to their heathen culture with drugs, drunkenness, wanton destruction, and, most worrying of all, a complete lack of regard for their wealthy betters.

Miss Hepplethwaite first tutted in disgust and then became more and more alarmed. What if the young savages, _á la _the Storming of the Bastille, pushed their way past her security guards and house staff, perhaps even killing them, and into her home? Who would protect poor Gwendolyn then? What if they breathed in her air space or coughed or sneezed in it or, worst of all, touched her? Whatever would she do?

And then a certain news item in one of the more serious papers, known for its lofty and lengthy style of journalism, captured her attention.

**_Drumgold Building Set Ablaze_**

_Follyfoot Farm, Yorkshire, designed early in his career by renowned architect William Drumgold, has been struck by lightning for the second time in its history. Built in 1668, Follyfoot was primarily known for the sale and hire of horses, in its heyday attracting thousands of visitors from across the globe, but trade fell into sharp decline with the advent of the motor car and it has remained unused for several years._

_Born in York, Drumgold spent the latter part of his life in London, where around 1700 he was consulted by the Duke of Buckingham over the building of "a new townhouse". This would later form the core of today's Buckingham Palace. A philanthropist, he believed the problems of crime and drunkenness that often blighted communities could be avoided by investing time and money in the future of the young. Almost bankrupting himself in the process, he established what could be seen as a forerunner to the ragged schools, where, in addition to a basic education, destitute boys could learn skills such as carpentry, shoe-making and tailoring while girls, rather quaintly, were taught "keeping a good home for gentlefolk". The breathtakingly beautiful Drumgold Chambers, situated in Covent Garden, is now converted into some dozen shops, including a milk bar where our modern day teens can meet and listen to the juke box or play pinball, but the eighteenth century motto "the devil finds work for idle hands to do" can still be seen carved above its ornate arched entrance._

_Follyfoot's first fire in the 1930s burnt down much of its stable block, but, fortunately, the latest blaze is not thought to be as severe. Mr Finlay Patterson, acting on behalf of its current owner, Lord Arthur Maddocks, yesterday confirmed that the damage, to the east wing of the manor house, was minimal. He paid tribute to staff and patrons of The Three Bells public house in nearby Whistedown, who saw smoke and raised the alarm, adding that their quick action averted what could have been a major disaster._

_Repairs are expected to be completed by the end of the month._


	41. Chapter 41

*****Chapter 41*****

*****Gwendolyn*****

Gwendolyn knew next to nothing about horses. That they lived in stables, neighed, chewed grass, and that people sometimes rode them could justifiably be claimed to be the sum total of her knowledge. But that newspaper report, shamelessly using a minor fire as an excuse to write a short biography of architect William Drumgold, was to change everything.

The elderly and cantankerous heiress's mundane existence was broken only by sacking staff for any real or imaginary slight and by terrorizing herself in speculating what germs may lurk beneath the most innocent of household objects. And her childhood was so very long ago that she could barely remember being a child at all. But, deep within her psyche, lay her very first memory.

There was someone with her -_ mother? father? governess? servant?_ - she couldn't recollect who her companion had been now, though she remembered…

_…A thrill runs through her as they feed the horse, and colours shining Technicolor bright, clouds silver-grey, the grass and trees a rich, rich green…a breeze sweeping impatiently by, lifting her hair, fluttering the horse's mane, shivering through trees…quiet raindrops starting to fall, gaining strength, glistening on the beautiful animal's coat, trickling through branches, cold on Gwendolyn's shoulders…_

Years pass by, faster than the wind, faster than thought, faster than the timeless rolling of the ocean. But the image is constant and it leaves her with tears moistening her eyes and wishing again for a long-ago time, when everything was tinged with a breathless, magical wonder. What happened afterwards? Did she and her mystery guardian, no more than a shadow now, laugh as they ran for shelter, was she scooped up into someone's arms, was she loved once? Or was it always as lonely as this?

For another memory of childhood is cold as ice.

_It is a year or so after the death of a father she barely remembers. She is perhaps seven or eight years old, sitting at a mahogany writing bureau, pasting pictures into a scrapbook, sketching ink patterns in childish, spidery hand. Pale and distracted, her mother, who, in the fashion of Queen Victoria, still wears widow's weeds, hurries by, her skirt rustling along the floor. She is carrying something folded inside a muslin cloth and the grandfather clock in the hall is loudly ticking and dust motes dance and fall. She walks through the French windows and into the summer-scented garden, to the cherry tree, so they tell Gwendolyn later, so they tell her when she has finally calmed enough to listen. Days after the loud bang pierced the air, days after Gwendolyn, suddenly knowing, had begun to shudder violently, while shouts and screams rang out and footsteps clattered from every direction._

A childhood gone then.

Keep out the world. The world is full of misery and harm. Never touch or be touched. Was it always so?

If things had been different…If there had been a different ending to a story so full of promise when colours were bright and the world new, could she, would she have been someone else? If Mother had never been prone to fits of depression, would the summer afternoon have been no more than a summer afternoon, and Gwendolyn never lived this lonely, miserable existence?

Could people, would people, change, if given another chance?

A splash of tear fell on to the newspaper report, a damp grey star smudging words and pulling them randomly out of the comfort of their sentences, mixing _"problems avoided young"_ irrevocably together. _Oh, if only, if only!_ She dropped a tear-sodden paper tissue into a bowl of disinfectant, kept there for the purpose, and reached for another.

A thin shaft of sunlight crept over the tiny chink above the closed curtains, its tremulous light, unsteadied by the March winds, crawling cobwebby fingers across ceiling and walls before slipping noiselessly away again. Gwendolyn's blurred gaze fell back down upon the newspaper and she thought of another time sunshine had streamed indoors and left nothing but darkness behind. _problems avoided young._ She read the jumbled words once more and suddenly a rare optimism consumed her. It had to be a sign! The only truly happy memory she had was of a horse. The article had been about an apparently world-famous riding stables. There was a way to protect herself AND to change the future. According to William Drumgold, young folk kept out of trouble if kept occupied…

The stipulation was that Hepplethwaite's must employ those in their teens or twenties, but especially those for whom life had dealt some cruel blow or who had nowhere else to turn. A helping hand, as it were, she explained to a startled Mr Henry Dingwall, of Shuttleworth, Dingwall & Brown, long time Hepplethwaite solicitors, for he had often remarked to his wife on the family's lack of charity towards those less fortunate.

Ironically, almost as soon as the ink was dry on the paper, Miss Gwendolyn Hepplethwaite breathed her last and shuffled off this mortal coil, perhaps to be held accountable to a greater god, perhaps to return forever to dust, none of us will ever know, until our own days on this Earth are done.

But the riding stables thrived. The wheels set in motion rolled on, smooth and well-oiled, with barely a bump or a squeak, and Shuttleworth, Dingwall & Brown were kept extremely busy dealing with the venture. The waiting list to work at Hepplethwaite's was always exceptionally long and, for once, the privileged found themselves at the very back of the queue while those who were used to being shunted to the back found themselves, for once, enjoying the giddy heights of the front.

You might think it a strange coincidence that Dora should visit Hepplethwaite's and later join Follyfoot Farm, which, oddly enough, was the inspiration for Hepplethwaite's. I, too, often puzzle over the coincidence and I wonder whether it _was_ coincidence or her _destiny._ Now you might well point out anything can be tweaked and twisted and turned to make it seem so. You might well observe that the more gullible among us _will _insist on ghosts, goblins and good luck charms, when there is inevitably a common sense explanation. Always, but always, a common sense explanation.

Oh, so you say, my logical friend, so you say!


	42. Chapter 42

*********chapter 42*****

*****Daz*****

Sometimes, when the moon was high and the whole of Follyfoot bathed in her silent grey light, the young girl would stir restlessly from her sleep and steal away to the attic window.

Her first winter here, unused to being outdoors in mud, snow and sleet, and frozen by the bitter winds that every Yorkshire lad and lass will tell you whistle hauntingly down from the moors and cut like ice, she had become ill. (___Nesh_, grinned Ron, winking, as he and Steve helped her indoors from the stables, and she smiled to let him know that, unlike in the early days, she realised he was teasing. (Although she had no idea what the slang word meant until she checked in the Yorkshire dialect pocket dictionary she kept under her pillow in secret.) Despite her burning throat, banging head and aching limbs, and against the doctor's advice, Dora would have been working with her beloved horses again the very next day except her uncle warned they might pick up an infection. Whether this was true or a ruse to ensure she rested, Dora didn't know, but she did know she would never forgive herself if she hurt a single horse and so, ruse or not, the plan worked.

One afternoon during her reluctant convalescence, and beginning to feel a little better, she wandered into the well-stocked manor house library. Literary classics and poetry; encyclopedias; Parliamentary and law books; stirring tales of brave military men and historic battles won; advice on etiquette, tales of débutantes, constantly updated editions of Who's Who, hundreds of different books, most left from the days when her parents, Lord and Lady Maddocks, had resided here at Follyfoot Farm, all jostled for space on heaving shelves.

But the leather-bound tome that captured her heart she found among a higgledy-piggledy jumble of books inside a sturdy solid oak antique bookcase. His father's book collection had been all that _"____Poor old Dotty Geoff", _as Arthur and Prudence mockingly called him behind his back, wanted from his will, bypassing the properties and fortune that was his inheritance as eldest son. It contained many an old and rare edition, but somehow she knew it was kept for love and not to be sold.

Clasping the tome to her bosom as though afraid to ever let it go, trying not to listen to the whinnies and clip-clop of hooves, for it tore at the young girl's heart not be with the animals she loved so, she hurried through the falling snow like a small white ghost and settled before the cosy glow of the roaring farmhouse fire. And from the book's very first words, quoting the great man, she knew at once William Drumgold understood:-

___Every building that is loved has a soul_

And she had loved Follyfoot Farm ever since, when she was very small, Jimmy told her stories of the time he'd worked here, being hired as head groom and later employed as chauffeur. Some faded away from her mind as she grew up, but when she saw Follyfoot for the very first time one very special sleeping memory woke anew.

That hot Saturday the Maddocks family set off from London, with the sun's reflection shimmering on a calm Thames and birds singing merrily, on what promised to be a glorious June day. The promise was broken. By mid-day black clouds obscured the sky and a silver curtain of rain obscured the land.

A roll of thunder growled menacingly above as Alec Bingham slowed down the Rolls to negotiate Whistledown Lane's notoriously steep hill. Soon after Jimmy's death, Jack Stanford's fiancée Lydia had discovered she was pregnant and, as her grandmother had lately bequeathed to her a house in Edinburgh, the couple decided to move to Scotland. Jack's replacement was a morose, taciturn man, but an excellent driver nonetheless and, even with rain drumming furiously down on the car roof, his passengers knew they were in very safe hands.

Curious to see what was to be her home for some years while her father took up the post of ambassador to Brazil, Dora rolled down the rain-smeared window. A wild flash of forked lightning chose that very moment to streak through the moody sky and freeze-frame the Farm in a picture she would remember forever. At the bottom of the hill, near a grey stone farmhouse and long row of stables, a figure clad in oilskins and sou'wester was opening a gate for a similarly-attired figure to lead a horse through. Behind them, in the distance, stood the magnificent manor house owned by her parents, but Dora paid scant attention to the famous and much-photographed Drumgold building. What held her gaze was the drenched, barren tree being battered by the storm, momentarily bowed by wind and rain, only to defiantly shake itself free and raise its torn branches to the Heavens like triumphant fists.

"The lightning tree!" she whispered, enchanted, suddenly recalling Jimmy telling her how the stunted tree was regularly watered for _"____dreams to come true" _and awed, as so many have been, by the dramatic thunderstorms that frequently strike this little heart of Yorkshire.

The magic was over almost as soon as it had begun.

"Dora!" squealed Prudence, shuddering as rain swept inside, and Arthur slammed down the window, drowning out the storm's fierce roar.

Her exasperated parents exchanged thankful glances that their daughter was not to accompany them to Brazil. Dora, with her constant daydreaming, was such an embarrassment in elite social circles.

But The Honourable Dora Maddocks, albeit educated in the most exclusive Swiss finishing school that was, and still is, favoured by Royalty from all over the world, cared not a jot for elite social circles. Kicking off her winter shoes and wrapping herself in an old furniture throw, she curled up on the arm-chair cosily as a cat, her windswept hair dripping with melted snowflakes, a crooked line of dust marking nose and cheek. Had they been there, Lord and Lady Maddocks would have been mortified. But fortunately Arthur and Prudence were thousands of miles away, dining with another fabulously wealthy couple, all four, under the guise of polite conversation, sniping at each other over who owned the greater riches, and the daughter born with a silver spoon in her mouth and gypsy in her heart was free as a bird.

The fire crackled loudly and, sleepily content with warmth while outside in the darkening afternoon snowflakes furiously swirled, the future heiress looked up from studying pencil sketches of Follyfoot, and reading of how round windows were a hallmark of Drumgold's architecture, to rest her chin on the book and watch the dancing and darting flames.

She had always found the ancient stone farmhouse, despite its cold clay floor and draughts and creaking doors, cosier than the manor house. For all its luxury, the manor house seemed icy and distant. Perhaps it was because, when she was very young, Jimmy would take her with him about his work and she had come to love the honest company of the serving staff, preferring them to her parents' shallow associates. She stared pensively into the fire, the smell of burning coal, the taste of soot and red glow of firelight sweeping back memories of Jimmy's homely little cottage in the grounds of the Maddocks' huge Kensington mansion. Jimmy and she had sat by the hearth on many a winter's evening, drinking cocoa and toasting bread that they spread with plum or raspberry jam made by Ada the cook, and Dora would sob heart-brokenly when it was time to go home to bed. Jimmy had been like a grandfather to her. It was Jimmy who took her to see horses and read her stories and taught her to tie shoe-laces. Who helped her make Chinese paper lanterns and put her paintings up on his wall and showed her how to grow strawberries. Who had given her the nickname Daz.

When the December snow fell, and she had run out into a brand new white, powdery world, wearing designer coat, hat, gloves and boots, all made specially for her by an exclusive Paris fashion house and, ___crème de la crème _of her many Christmas presents from her parents, a diamond bracelet. Prudence and Arthur, believing that expensive gifts equated love, congratulated themselves when they saw their little daughter's delighted face upon opening the jewellery box. (Although, in truth, Dora, being barely five years old and too young to understand the concept of money, had been fascinated by the colours and would have been just as happy with a multi-coloured bracelet made of plastic.) Her favourite Christmas toy was the cuddly toy horse, a gift from Jimmy, and which she was hugging to her as she slipped on an icy patch and fell in a heap.

Jimmy picked her up, dusting clumps of snow from her coat.

"Razzle Dazzle Dora, whiter than white!" He grinned as the winter sun picked prisms of light from the diamonds. "You can see her in the daytime and you can see her in the night."

Dora, who'd been about to cry, giggled. They loved making up silly poems together. Their favourite was the one that they always tried to recite as fast as they could without pausing for breath: ___The cat was very fat because he ate the bat and the rat and the gnat and the hat and the mat and the mouse ate the louse and the sprouts and the scouse and the very fat cat that ate the bat and the rat and the gnat and the hat and the mat so THAT WAS THAT!"_

She became Razzle Dazzle after that, then Dazzle, and then Daz. The other House staff picked up on the name, but Jimmy, being such a good friend of her parents, was the only one who could call her Daz without being reprimanded by Lord or Lady Maddocks, who, nickname or not, declared it to be _"____suitable only for a common servant". _With Jimmy, however, Prudence and Arthur softened and were generous and caring. Dora was reflecting on how different things might have been, if only all their acquaintances had been like Jimmy, when voices sounded nearby and she quickly dabbed away nostalgic tears as the farmhouse filled, or seemed to fill, with people. The visitors brought in the icy air and the blue smoke of their breath, stomping snow from their boots, blowing on their hands, faces red and eyes bright with the kiss of winter.

Of course, seeing her there, they began to mock.

Ron called her _"m'lady____, wot lounges about all day" _and bowed extravagantly as he set a chipped mug of steaming tea down beside her. Slugger tutted, swiped him gently across the ear, and chided, "Yer uncouth lout, fetch a bleedin' china cup and a bleedin' china saucer and a bleedin' buttered ___scooone_ for 'er Gracious Ladyship", then pulled a comical "snooty" face and doffed his woollen hat.

Steve sat down on the arm of the chair to read over her shoulder, and ask in that usual half resentful voice, which always unsettled her, did she plan to buy another stately home with her vast riches then? And added, with a flash of his dark eyes, a peck of her cheek and a disarming smile as he squeezed her shoulder before jumping up again, "I'm only joking, girl."

Uncle Geoffrey said nothing, merely poked the fire, shaking his head and smiling as though he agreed with every word they said, as he tapped and re-filled his pipe.

She took their humour in her stride. At least, now she did now. At first, Steve, Ron and Slugger, being so very different from the people she had mixed with since she was seven years old and sent off to boarding school after Jimmy's death, she would fly into a rage whenever they made comments about her privileged background. Until she realised, the more angry her reaction the more fun it was, and what she saw as accusations of snobbery was the affectionate teasing of friends.

But Ron and Slugger always made her laugh. Steve always left her confused. With Steve, she felt a topsy-turvy myriad of emotions, the like of which she had never felt with anyone else before. And she wondered if…

_…____If…_

…because, you see, the young girl had never known …

…and yet ___somehow_ she knew...

One frosty night, as she tossed and turned, the silver light of the moon and the rattling of a nearby door conspired to break her slumbers. She sat up, wondering what had woken her. A door banged in answer. She realised at once the cause.

The day had been bitterly cold but sunny, and while out riding, from the high point at the other side of the river, Dora had noticed a sudden flash of sunlight on the manor house roof. She hadn't been too surprised. A charity which dealt in recycled goods had recently approached Uncle Geoffrey for donations and two men had been invited today to sift through the contents of the vast attic, a silent, cobwebby, shadowy room, largely undisturbed for decades. No doubt they'd opened the window to let out the dust of centuries, but not secured the catch when they'd closed it again.

She pulled on dressing gown and slippers, and, guided by the pool of moonlight that crept inside, hurried down the long hallway and climbed the spiral staircase at the very end. Now Drumgold buildings are noted for their eccentric features and Follyfoot was no exception. Directly below the skylight had been built a set of stone steps and ornate handrail, with a small seat at its very top.

Perhaps Drumgold had built it especially for dreamers.

For she was about to fasten the lock when she stopped and instead pushed the glass further open. The air was ice cold, but Dora barely noticed. Follyfoot had never looked more beautiful, nor beat more closely to her heartbeat than it did at that moment.

A quiet full moon hung in the midnight sky, where thousands of stars shone brighter than they'd ever shone before. From Whistledown Hill to the frozen lake, from the distant fields to the quaint old farmhouse, not a sound was heard, not a blade of grass quivered, not a breath of wind stirred. Frost glinted and glistened everywhere, on grass and trees, on roofs and windows, on walls and fences. But, most of all, the lightning tree stood proud, its sturdy trunk coated with silvery white, its moonlit shadow cast against the stable block, its torn limbs sparkling with jewels of ice. The words came back to her mind.

___Every building that is loved has a soul_

And Follyfoot was so loved. So much a part of everyone who had ever lived or worked here.

If only here at Follyfoot someone would realise he'd stolen her heart. The iciness caught her then and she shivered as she closed the window and shut out the dark.


End file.
